


A Perilous Journey to Lorien

by LadyJaina



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fellowship of the Ring, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 37,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29702664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyJaina/pseuds/LadyJaina
Summary: Overwrought by Gandalf's passing, the Company tarried too long at the first glimpse of safety...with disastrous consequences. In the original story, the Fellowship makes it to the Golden Wood by the skin of their teeth, but what would happen if they were delayed by a couple hours? A Fellowship story. Rated T for violence and mild gore.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter One

Summary: "So overwrought were the Company at Mithrandir's passing, that they tarried too long at the first glimpse of safety."

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings, I'm just playing with the characters Tolkien created.

Note: Seventeen years ago, I first posted a story titled _A Perilous Journey to Lórien._ It went on to gain almost two hundred reviews and nearly one hundred favorites, for what reason I cannot fathom. The writing was terrible, and the plot even worse.

Here, I think, is the story as it should have been told. If you've read the other, I think you'll find this to be a completely different, and much superior, tale. I've kept only the setting and basic idea of the plot. The story picks up just after the events on the Bridge of Khazad-Dûm, as recorded in the books, and will closely follow the events after the fall of Gandalf—except where my own plot conflicts with said events. At times, the story will change events as actually written by Tolkien, but will not affect canon beyond Lothlórien, except, perhaps in the memories of the characters involved. Though some elements from the films may be present, this story is book-verse. Quotes from _The Fellowship of the Ring_ will be italicized.

* * *

Chapter One

The shafts of light grew ahead of them, driving away the shadows of Moria. Here at last, was the way out of this dreadful place. Black Pit*, indeed, Frodo thought darkly as he struggled to keep pace with the others. He _heard Sam at his side weeping, and then he found that he himself was weeping as he ran._ Ahead of him, Legolas eclipsed the brilliant light of the entryway, the three arrows remaining in this quiver bouncing around like dark black shadows at his shoulder. Just behind the elf, huffing a bit, was Gimli. His heavy boots thudded quickly on the stone. Frodo risked a backward glance for his kin and was relieved to find them being herded, however kindly, by Boromir at the rear. Their faces were drawn and pale, and their eyes huge with tears and disbelief.

A clatter and hurried footsteps ahead jerked Frodo's attention back to the front. _There was a guard of orcs crouching in the shadows behind the great door-posts towering on either side,_ and a tall orc stood blocking the way out. Frodo knew a moment of fear before _Aragorn smote to the ground the captain that stood in his path._ It was over before any of the others could join the fray, _and the rest fled in terror of his wrath._ At last the feeling of mortal peril began to ebb. The orcs would not have fled unless they had been outmatched and cut off. _The Company swept past them and took no heed of them._ By some miracle of Elbereth, they were emerging from Moria as the victors.

 _Out of the Gates they ran and sprang down the huge and age-worn steps._ Each impact jarred Frodo's entire body, and he gritted his teeth at the stab of pain that lanced through his side and his chest. He heard Sam moan a bit beside him and remembered the dear gardener had taken wounds of his own in the mines, but he was managing. They all were. To not manage was to die. To fail.

 _Thus, at last, they came beyond hope under the sky and felt the wind on their faces_ , and as they fled, they could forget, for a moment the haunting dark of Moria and look on blue sky.

 _They did not halt until they were out of bowshot from the walls._ Frodo stood apart from the others, struggling to catch his breath as he gazed out over the Dimrill Dale, still blinking a bit with eyes unaccustomed to daylight. It was shadowed by the Misty Mountains, but eastward he could see _a golden light on the land._ He reckoned _it was but one hour after noon. The sun was shining; the clouds were white and high._ He _looked back. Dark yawned the archway of the Gates under the mountain-shadow. Faint and far beneath the earth rolled the slow drumbeats: doom. A thin black smoke trailed out. Nothing else was to be seen; the dale all around them was empty. Doom._

 _Grief at last wholly overcame_ him, the tears on his face cutting a trail through the dirt and filth of the mines. He was weary already, so weary, and yet they still had so far to go. Without Gandalf. The great, heaving sobs threatening to overtake him sent waves of pain lancing through his chest and side. Fire and darkness flashed through his mind, in time with each throb of agony. His heart still raced at the sheer terror of the Balrog. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, but in his mind all he could see was Gandalf falling again and again. _"Fly, you fools."_ Instead of the calm he sought, his breaths only came faster, in little panicked puffs.

He'd acted so rashly, so naively, in agreeing to this Quest. And now Gandalf was gone. Though he was still surrounded with companions, the task fell to him alone and the weight of it was suddenly too much to bear. Gradually, the chapping mountain wind calmed him, its icy kiss grounding him to his present reality. At last, the grief of the others penetrated the fog and terror that had gripped his mind. He could breathe again, even if more shallowly than he was accustomed. Slowly, he loosened the hand that had been absently gripping the ring and turned, looking back at his companions. They had scattered over the hillside, each trying to give and take a bit of solitude in their mourning. Pippin's and Merry's cries were the loudest from their place on the ground, and Sam was in a daze. Poor Sam, Frodo thought with a bitter pang, he's never looked for any adventures, and I've dragged him into mortal peril. They've never known tragedy or heartache, and I've dragged them all here. Next to them, Boromir's face was a careful mask, though his eyes glistened, and he was clearly keeping guard over the little folk, as he so often called Frodo and his kin.

Frodo's attention went next to Gimli as the dwarf shifted and leaned on his axe. He made no effort to hide the tears spilling down and wetting his coarse beard. Frodo was struck suddenly by how, in his grief, the dwarf looked so very young. Gone was the gruff mask, though Frodo knew the dwarf would soon raise it again lest he appear vulnerable in front of the elf.

Almost as if he was accounting for everyone, his eyes continued on to Legolas. Grief welled up again, and his breath hitched at the bereft resignation on the elf's face. This is not the first sorrow in his long life, Frodo suspected, nor the last. Another tear fell, and despite the wails of Merry and Pippin, Frodo perceived the depths of sadness in the elf's eyes and considered that perhaps Gandalf in his long and wandering life had made many friends dearer even than hobbits.

At last, it seemed to Frodo's ears, _the drum-beats faded_ and a large hand came to rest on his shoulder. He jerked in surprise, then hissed lightly at the pain of the sudden movement. That the perceptive ranger had not noticed told the hobbit more than he needed to know of the man's state of mind. He shifted his regard to the man. Aragorn. The heir of Elendil. The Ranger's gray eyes were misty, and his great anger had left him. Now he only looked weary and heart sick. His voice was rough when he finally spoke. "Come, Frodo, we must not linger here. _He_ would desire we leave the gates of Moria and mourn him elsewhere."

 _He looked towards the mountains and held up his sword. "Farewell, Gandalf!" he cried._ Frodo's vision blurred again with tears, and he felt he should turn away from the private moment, though Aragorn was speaking loudly. " _Did I not say to you: if you pass the doors of Moria, beware? Alas that I spoke true! What hope have we without you?"_

What hope indeed, Frodo agreed.

The Ranger _turned to the Company. "We must do without hope," he said. "At least we may yet be avenged. Let us gird ourselves and weep no more! Come! We have a long road, and much to do."_

Frodo allowed himself to be steered back toward the others, the wind picking up and ruffling his hair.

"Aragorn!" Came a sharp warning from Legolas, and Frodo gave a shocked grunt as the man grabbed him by the shoulders and violently shoved him to the ground.

"Stay down!"

It took him a few moments to identify the little breezes as arrows flying perilously close to his head. Frodo's mind raced as Aragorn's weight pressed him even further into the cleft created by the ancient roadside drainage system. They had gotten clear of the high vaulted and vent-like windows above the gate that could have been used to pick them off had they stopped and rested too soon, and they had run down the steps, a smooth rock wall hewn out of the mountain itself at their right. Their senses had still been heightened from Moria, and they had all been careful to look for any sign of the enemy. Surely they hadn't missed something? Yet, here was evidence that they had.

The landscape lent a bit of natural protection, but also meant Frodo couldn't see what was happening—and if anything was worse than sheer terror, it was being trapped with no way to see what was happening, or protect oneself.

"Aragorn?!" He questioned frantically as it became clear the ranger was shielding him with his own body. Frodo hoped the small culvert was deep enough to keep them both safe, but the man's body muffled the sounds above him.

"They must have been waiting for us—to pick off whoever passed. I don't think they'll come out until nightfall—we are safe enough here, and we'll be safer yet when we rejoin the others. We were so caught up in our grief that we tarried too long at the first sign of safety. I am sorry, Frodo. I should have pressed us on."

He raised his voice slightly and called, still softly, "Legolas—can you see anything?"

Frodo wriggled until he could see out a bit and felt Aragorn instinctively ease his weight off of him. He sighed with relief as air came more easily into his lungs. Looking left, he saw that the others were relatively sheltered behind a crumbling stone ruin, the remains of an ancient guardhouse of Moria, perhaps. Really, only part of a wall remained. Behind it the rest of the Company huddled, weapons at attention. Legolas stood closest to the edge, an arrow nocked and already drawn.

Black arrows fletched with great black feathers littered the mountainside, but their direction was far to the right of the main Company.

"I wandered too far and now we've been cut off from the others." Guilt weighed on him more at present than the injury he had taken in the mines.

Aragorn sighed. "The responsibility is not yours. We were all too much in shock to have taken the proper precautions. But," he flashed him a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, "orcs have terrible aim, and we are going to use that to our advantage."

"Legolas!" It was almost a whisper, but Frodo knew the elf would still be able to hear. The elf immediately straightened and looked toward them. "At the count of three, I want you to pick off their main archer, if you can, and we're going to make a run for it." Frodo felt a shadow of fear in his heart. He had no doubt of Legolas' aim and quickness with a bow, but he'd seen the near empty quiver.

A quick burst of elvish from the ranger perplexed Frodo, but he could have sworn he saw a smirk appear on Legolas' face. He looked like he might have replied, but decided they were too far to hear any wry retorts.

"We just need enough of a pause while they rearrange positions to leap behind that wall, and then we'll be out of their range." The man told him soothingly. Pain forgotten, Frodo readied himself. He felt slow and stiff, and it would take him twice as many steps to cross the distance. To a man, it might not look so great, but for a hobbit, it was quite far. His heart warmed gratefully as he heard Sam plaintively inform Legolas of the very same thing. Truthfully, it was Aragorn's safety that concerned him. Bilbo's gift had already proven true; it was the man who was in greater danger if short hobbit legs slowed him down.

"Get ready, Frodo-Mîn, tâd, NÊL!*"

So many things happened at once. Aragorn sprang out of the culvert, hauling Frodo with him under one arm and propelling him toward the wall. Frodo's feet barely had a chance to touch the ground as they leapt, his legs scrambling uselessly in the air. He braced for the impact of the arrows even as Legolas stepped out swiftly in front of them from behind the wall and let fly two arrows in quick succession, automatically feeling for a third. Safe behind the wall, Frodo was forcefully delivered into Sam's arms, and he turned to offer Aragorn a relieved smile. Frodo's heart clenched as Legolas staggered back behind the wall to join the rest of the Company. Elves _never_ staggered, at least not that he'd ever seen. They all seemed only to be capable of movements of infuriating grace and fluidity. Ignoring the pain in his ribs, he leaned around the man for a better view.

An expression of mild surprise was on the elf's face as he gazed down at his torso. Frodo's eyes widened, taking in at almost the same moment the blood on the slender fingers and the black fletched arrow protruding from the elf's side.

* * *

*The name Moria means Black Pit, and, according to Tolkien, was given to Khazad-dum by the elves after the dwarves awakened the Balrog. What I, personally, do not understand is how the Western Gates were inscribed with the name Moria during the time of Narvi, at the height of the dwarf kingdom.

*Mîn, tâd, NÊL!—One, two, THREE!

* * *

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	2. Chapter Two

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Note: I've made the assumption that Gimli at least understands Sindarin. After all, his father had dealings with Thranduil. Also, I cannot take credit for the idea behind Sam's outburst mid-chapter. The idea came from the fanfic _The River_ by Indigo Bunting. I highly recommend giving it a read!

* * *

Chapter Two

It was not only Gandalf whom Gimli mourned. He'd held out hope to the very last moment, but after Moria he could no longer deny Balin's demise. His kin. In his younger days, he'd sat up with them nursing an ale late into the night while they'd regaled him with the legends of Khazad-Dûm, and of their desire to restore it to the glory days of the dwarves, or of their adventures with a certain hobbit. It had long been their dream, and now they lay dead. Now Gimli had proof undeniable that all those who had set out to reclaim Moria were lost. The book of Marzarbul would be an extra weight in his pack and burden on his heart until he could bring it to his father. How glad he had been of the wizard's stubborn choosing of the path under the mountains, and now the mines had claimed him, too. It was unfathomable.

He should have returned his axe to its place on his belt, but instead he leaned against it, gripping the axe head tightly. The bite of the metal into his gloves felt calming. Later, he would remember to clean off the orc blood, but for the moment he paid it no mind. These were grievous losses, each too near to the other to bear. His very knees trembled with the weight of all that had passed. Aye, Moria had been grander than even his youthful visions, but he wished now it had been sealed up long ago, never to be looked on again. He bowed his head. Had anyone been paying attention, they might have noticed the tears wetting his beard, but he did not feel ashamed.

A little clatter ahead of him jerked him from his reverie, and his eyes flashed to a spot several paces ahead. Even as he comprehended the black arrow, more began to fly. Before he could react, the elf called out a warning, but the Ranger and Frodo were already too far away for any of the Company to come swiftly to aid them.

Arrows continued to fly all around, one bounced harmlessly off his mail coat as Gimli, also, took shelter, propelling the still paralyzed Sam in front of him. Beside him, Boromir's oath was unintelligible as he pulled the younger hobbits behind the ruin of an ancient wall.

"Aragorn and Frodo are cut off!" the man reported. It was sheer luck shelter had been so near, slowed as they were by grief and weariness. The ruin of a guardhouse, perhaps.

"Can you see who is shooting at us?" This came from Merry, who had snapped out of his stupor of grief and drawn his sword, Gimli noted with approval.

Boromir shook his head, and Gimli muttered. "I suppose we'll have to ask the elf."

"Our friends are safe for now," came the reply, its usual merriment tempered a bit, "but our enemy is concealed in the trees. Their numbers are small, maybe five archers. Even to my eyes, the area appears to be the roots of the mountain, but there must have been some window out of Moria, or at least a shelter for them to lie in wait."

"They were biding their time, waiting until we had tasted freedom." Gimli said bitterly.

"Likely a last guard, to prevent any of us from escaping should all other means fail, and in our grief, we have made their job all too easy," Boromir spat.

"Aye," Legolas replied. "They guard the road, but they cannot reach us, save by arrows…at least for now."

"They've stopped shooting," Sam observed quietly.

Gimli's eyes turned back to the elf, whose jaw was set with a grim knowledge, and perhaps a hint of resignation.

"Their targets have disappeared. We are concealed behind this ruin, and I saw Aragorn push Frodo forward and out of their line of sight—there" he pointed to the left and across the wide courtyard. The dwarf could see Aragorn couched low, and Frodo beneath him.

"They are waiting for our next move, conserving their arrows," Legolas continued softly, "and I suspect they'll be willing to wait until night if necessary, when they can come out in greater numbers."

"Could Frodo and Strider continue against the mountain wall until they are out of reach?"

Merry asked a valid question.

Legolas tilted his head in consideration and gazed across the expanse, seeking the road's direction. Finally, he shook his head. "That rock face ends almost as soon as the road narrows. There would be no more shelter until the road curved again. The distance to us would be safer."

"But Mr. Legolas!" Sam sounded both panicked and indignant. He seemed to have rallied a bit. "That may be a short dash for Mr. Strider, but it's twice as far for Mr. Frodo! Hobbits can be speedy, I'll grant you, but it will take him much longer to get to safety." The other hobbits nodded in solidarity.

"Peace, Sam. Aragorn will not leave Frodo to fend for himself." Boromir eyed Legolas' bow.

Guessing his thoughts, Legolas spoke. "Neither will I. I shall distract them—and with some luck, perhaps it will be their numbers that are reduced, not our own." He paused as if listening to something, and the dwarf was a little surprised to see a smirk cross his lips. No doubt the Ranger was forming a plan. He'd never admit to envying an elf, but such sensitive hearing would be helpful from time to time.

Gimli eyed Legolas' quiver with a feeling of unease. Even he would not deny the elf was talented with his bow, but a bow was useless without arrows, and the three knocking around in the near-empty quiver would not be enough to subdue the five above.

They all fell silent, waiting in jittery anticipation of what would happen. Aragorn was counting, Gimli suspected.

"NÊL*!" cracked harshly across the courtyard to them, and Legolas stepped swiftly out to the side of the wall and aimed his bow up and to the right, staying parallel to the wall. He had nocked and loosed a second arrow before anything else had moved. Gimli could hear the orcs chattering excitedly at the elf's appearance and pressed his lips together to suppress his alarm. The stupid elf was making himself a target. There was no denying the orcs found him to be a far worthier prize than a man and a hobbit.

As so often happens in battle or skirmish, time seemed to slow. Aragorn sprang forward, the Ringbearer a blur of green and rusty brown under one arm. Legolas nocked his final arrow and shot, while at the same time the man dove between him around the stony wall, almost tossing Frodo in front of him. Had the situation been less dire, he might have come less close to outright throwing Master Baggins. Before the hobbit had fully reached the ground and before Gimli even had time to cry out a proper warning, a black blur-barely discernable to his mortal eyes-propelled the elf backward several steps, but he remained upright and staggered at last behind the safety of the wall.

Aragorn turned at Gimli's abbreviated cry and stared. Slowly, as if he wasn't yet certain what had happened, the elf looked down at the damage. The man sprang to the elf's side as the fire of battle ebbed, and Legolas slid downward. He only just managed to slow his friend's descent and ease him to the ground where he could lean again the wall.

Around him, Gimli could hear surprise and dismay as each of the Company became aware of what had transpired. Aragorn was heedless of them, his focus solely on the elf in front of him. He knelt close to Legolas, firing off something in rapid Sindarin and pressing his fingers around the wound. Gimli thought it strange that any man's default language when upset would be the Grey Tongue. Perhaps the man and the elf were even closer than he had previously thought, or maybe he was just trying to keep the elf calm. Gimli shook his head. He might as well speak in Weston, for his words were secret only to the hobbits and Boromir, thought he suspected Frodo understood more than he let on.

"Estel-we must go. We cannot tarry here." The elf's voice was rough with pain.

"You cannot afford to bleed to death, gwador nîn*," Aragorn retorted, "We have time enough, and your adar* would have my head, heir of Elendil or not."

Gimli raised an eyebrow at this. He had thought when the Company set out, that the man and the elf had perhaps been previously acquainted, but here was proof of a deeper bond. He wondered why the Ranger had hidden it from them.

Boromir had joined Aragorn at the elf's side, or maybe he had been there for some time and it had escaped Gimli's notice. He hovered over the elf and the man, speaking softly, and then he folded his stout frame into a crouch. "Surely you don't mean to remove it?!"

"Of course not!" came the somewhat indignant reply. But Gimli heard fear there, too.

"Why _doesn't_ he hurry and pull it out?" Pippin exclaimed in soft surprise beside him. Gimli wrenched his gaze from the elf to look at the young hobbit, whose eyes were wide and horrified. His kin were all gathered around him. Merry had a comforting hand on his cousin's shoulder. Gimli's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he noticed Frodo's stiff and shallow breathing and Sam's pale face. Clearly, neither felt well, but each was distracted from his own hurts. He'd need to keep an eye out, but as they were on their feet now, the elf was the priority.

"Learn this lesson and learn it well, my lad, for we may have need of it where we're going—Mahal bless we won't," Gimli answered gently, "To pull an arrow out is like enough as to bleed to death. If you're ever in that situation, you're to leave it alone. Now, Aragorn here might choose to remove it, but I expect he knows a thing or two more about it."

"Indeed, _he_ does." Came the wry reply from the man, who was looking pointedly at Boromir.

Nothing else was said by the hobbits as Aragorn held pressure against the wound, and none too gently. His actions were methodical and decisive. Keeping his hand firmly pressed on the wound, he rummaged through his pouch with the other, retrieving bandages and a small, corked vial. Gimli squinted a bit, for they were all in close enough quarters that he could almost make out elvish script on the label. Passing it to Boromir to uncork, Aragorn turned back to the already protesting elf.

"I need to be clear-minded," he was saying.

"You need to be able to move."

Boromir passed the bottle to the elf. It seemed he and Aragorn had reached an agreement about one thing, at least.

"We're in short supply, but it was Elladan who you can thank for insisting I take what supplies they had that I could carry. This will dull your pain."

"I'll be insensate!" Legolas clearly recognized the concoction. Gimli marveled that the elf still managed to be argumentative under such circumstances.

"Just half, then," Aragorn cajoled, a notes of both exasperation and desperation in his voice.

The elf nodded finally and threw back half the contents with a grimace before thrusting it back at Boromir and wiping a shaky arm across his mouth.

Satisfied, the man drew a dagger from his belt. It was clean—untouched by their skirmishes in the mines. Aragorn's hands were practiced as he cut away the blood-soaked suede jerkin and blue shirt underneath it to expose the wound. Gimli's stomach roiled at the sight of the orc arrow in the flesh of a companion. Even an elf. It never became easier. He spared a sideways glance at the hobbits and noted with some surprise that, though their faces were pale, a fiery anger shone in their eyes. That was unexpected—anger over horror or revulsion.

"Goheno nîn, mellon nîn.* The draught will take the edge off soon, but you know we cannot wait." the man paused and gripped the elf's shoulder. He stabilized the arrow with bandages, then began whetting the dagger against a stone. The dwarf watched as deft hands, still grimy from battle, scored the outside of the shaft round and round with the sharp blade. Even the slightest jostling of the arrow had to pain the elf, whose jaw was clenched tightly. He continued to tense against the pain, but no sound escaped. The shaft at last broke away, falling with a clatter to the ground amidst the eerie silence.

Boromir cast it away with the toe of his boot in disgust, but the dark look he shared with Aragorn did not go unnoticed. Gimli's heart sank. The elf had paled dramatically, and Aragorn was now whispering in hushed Sindarin, "Breathe, mellon nîn. The pain will pass." To Gimli's amazement, after several frantic, gulping breaths, his color returned and he calmed a bit. A man or dwarf would not have recovered so quickly.

"I fear blood loss will weaken you in a way that pain will not, at least for now. Can you stand?"

Gimli thought with some dismay how much walking would pain the elf, if even the care Aragorn took was excruciating. He hoped somewhat ruefully that the elvish medicine would work just as pretentiously as it seemed every other elvish creation did.

The answering chuckle was unexpected, and somewhere between a grin and a gasp. "Peace! I've had worse than this, and your brother's draught is taking hold." And apparently it was, for the elf finally had the presence of mind to speak in Westron, so all could understand. A calculated move, maybe, but the entire Company cheered a bit and seemed to take a collective sigh of relief. The elf's tone was light enough, but his voice was strained, and Gimli could not dismiss the worry in Aragorn's eyes.

"Good. We'll be safer the more distance we can put between us and this accursed place," Boromir cut in tersely. "What is our direction?"

At last they began to assess their location. Gimli looked _northward_ and could see that there _the dale ran up into a glen of shadows between two great arms of the mountains, above which three white peaks were shining: Celebdil, Fanuidhol, Caradhras, the Mountains of Moria. At the head of the glen a torrent flowed like a white lace over an endless ladder of short falls, and a mist of foam hung in the air about the mountains' feet._

Aragorn followed his gaze. _"Yonder is the Dimrill Stair,"_ he said, _pointing to the falls. "Down the deep-cloven way that climbs beside the torrent we should have come, if fortune had been kinder."_

 _"Or Caradhras less cruel," said Gimli. "There he stands smiling in the sun!" He shook his fist at the furthest of the snow-capped peaks and turned away._ How they had paid for his cruelty.

"The road lies below us. If we are to avoid further encounters with unfriendly arrows, we must pick our way down the mountainside to the place the road curves back east." He pointed to the rocky terrain that descended below them.

"Easy does it," he cautioned, as he and Boromir helped Legolas to his feet. The elf groaned at the movement and braced himself against the wall for a few moments to grow used to being on his feet. Gimli blinked in surprised when, after a few breaths, he looked up and proclaimed, "I am ready."

Indeed, if not for the disfigured and stained jerkin and shirt, one would hardly realize the elf was injured. Even the steward's son seemed taken aback, and the hobbits were similarly in awe, but Aragorn merely gave a sad smile and squeezed the elf's shoulder before turning and leading them all in their chosen direction.

The mountainside was steep and stony, and, though picking their way down it proved slow and precarious at times, the way was not overly difficult. Young birches grew sparsely and Legolas used them like great walking staffs, letting them brace him as he made his way down.

At last, they came to an ancient stone ledge, and in it Gimli recognized the craftsmanship of his kin. Below it, the road curved to meet them. It _was rough and broken,_ now _fading to a winding track between heather and whin that thrust amid the cracking stones. But still it could be seen that once long ago a great paved way had wound upwards from the lowlands of the Dwarf-kingdom. In places there were ruined works of stone beside the path_ not unlike the wall that had sheltered them from the orcs above _, and mounds of green topped with slender birches, or fir-trees sighing in the wind._

How ironic that this time, it was the elf that needed to catch his breath. Gimli's heart twinged. How angry he had been at the elf's merriment on Caradharas as he dashed along the snow. He should have already danced his merry way halfway down the road and back to report on his findings. They paused here and looked about them. _To the east the outflung arm of the mountains marched to a sudden end, and far lands could be descried beyond them, wide and vague. To the south the Misty Mountains receded endlessly as far as sight could reach. Less than a mile away, and a little below them, for they still stood high up on the west side of the dale, there lay a mere. It was long and oval, shaped like a great spear-head thrust deep into the northern glen; but its southern end was beyond the shadows under the sunlit sky. Yet its waters were dark: a deep blue like clear evening sky seen from a lamp-lit room. Its face was still and unruffled. About it lay a smooth sward, shelving down on all sides to its bare unbroken rim._

Grief rose up again. There Balin had been slain.

 _"There lies the Mirrormere, deep Kheled-zaram!" said Gimli sadly. "I remember that he said: 'May you have joy of the sight! But we cannot linger there.' Now long shall I journey ere I have joy again. It is I that must hasten away, and he that must remain."_ The sight would have been the joy of his life, but he'd now ever associate its beauty with loss-loss of his kin and loss of Gandalf.

The Company moved on for a while. Eventually, _an eastward bend led them hard by the sward of Mirrormere, and there not far from the roadside stood a single column broken at the top._

 _"That is Durin's Stone!" cried Gimli,_ before he could stop himself. He dared not turn _aside for a moment to look at the wonder of the dale_ , but the ancient places of his kin stirred something in him that was impossible to ignore.

 _"Be swift!" said Aragorn,_ giving him a nod of encouragement and _looking back toward the Gates._ "I would have not have us hurry by when this is as convenient a place to pause as any to make sure the bandages are holding, but we must not stay here long. _The Sun sinks early. The Orcs will not, maybe, come out till after dusk, but we must be far away before nightfall. The Moon is almost spent, and it will be dark tonight._ Be quick. _"_

Gimli looked darkly at the elf. He looked a bit more tired than before, his bandages already soaked from the jostling climb down. It felt a betrayal to turn aside now, yet something in the elf's eyes spoke of understanding. In that moment, Gimli felt such a kinship with the elf that it shook him to his very boots. The elves understood and honored history and heritage in a way similar to his own people.

Gimli bowed his head in thanks.

 _"Come with me, Frodo!"_ he decided suddenly, turning to the Ringbearer and beckoning him _from the road. "I would not have you go without seeing Kheled-zaram." He ran down the long green slope_ and could hear _Frodo follow_ ing _slowly_ behind, and also another. A quick glance confirmed it was Sam.

 _Behind the standing stone Gimli halted and looked up. It was cracked and weather-worn, and the faint runes upon its side could not be read. "This pillar marks the spot where Durin first looked in the Mirrormere," said the dwarf_ , feeling no little amount of awe and reverence. _"Let us look ourselves once, ere we go!"_

_They stooped over the dark water. At first they could see nothing. Then slowly they saw the forms of the encircling mountains mirrored in a profound blue, and the peaks were like plumes of white flame above them; beyond there was a space of sky. There like jewels sunk in shone glinting stars, though sunlight was in the sky above. Of their own stooping forms no shadow could be seen._

_"O Kheled-zaram fair and wonderful!" said Gimli_ , sadly and wistfully _. "There lies the Crown of Durin till he wakes. Farewell!" He bowed, and turned away, and hastened back up the green-sward to the road again._

When they returned from the mere, the elf was leaning against a tree, apparently preferring its support to the men hovering beside him. He was far too pale. Even his lips were bloodless, but he was still upright. The elf grunted as the new bandages were tied even more tightly.

"Would that we could be still," the man was saying, "I fear the terrain has done you no favors, mellon nîn, but I will do what I can for you, and the road is easier for a while."

The elf batted his hands away. "I will be fine." The look on his face spoke of wounded pride.

Aragorn looked doubtful, if bit annoyed. Gimli allowed himself to relax ever so slightly. Perhaps the wound had not been so dire as it had first feared.

"I tell no lie. We will press on as long as I can, and we have your brothers' foresight to thank for it. We cannot stop here at any rate—and if things should suddenly go ill, better that we are nearer to Lothlórien."

* * *

NÊL=three

gwador nîn=my (sworn) brother

adar=father

Goheno nîn, mellon nîn=I'm sorry, my friend.

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As always, any feedback is welcome and appreciated.


	3. Chapter Three

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

Note: Parts of this chapter are very quote-heavy, but where possible, I wanted to preserve the original story, since the events in my own are so closely tied to it.

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Chapter Three

 _The road now turned south and went quickly downwards, running out from between the arms of the dale._ Merry jogged along in the middle as the Company hurried along, strung out in a long line along the ancient road. _Some way below the mere they came on a deep well of water, clear as crystal, from which a freshet fell over a stone lip and ran glistening and gurgling down a steep rocky channel._

 _'Here is the spring from which the Silverlode rises," said Gimli,_ who jogged to his left. _"Do not drink of it! It is icy cold."_ Merry turned his head toward the voice and felt a stab of envy at the dwarf's endurance. Surely his own legs weren't so much shorter than a dwarf's? Besides, thirsty though he was, the decision to stop for a drink did not lie with him. Did Gimli really think he would heedlessly veer off and start lapping it up?

 _"Soon it becomes a swift river, and it gathers water from many other mountain-streams," said Aragorn_ , from the front. _"Our road leads beside it for many miles. For I shall take you by the road that Gandalf chose, and first I hope to come to the woods where the Silverlode flows into the Great River—out yonder." They looked as he pointed, and before them they could see the stream leaping down to the trough of a valley, and then running on and away into the lower lands, until it was lost in a golden haze._

 _"The woods of Lothlórien!" said Legolas_ from his place beside Aragorn, though it was more of a gasp. He was breathing heavily from the brisk pace required of them. It seemed to Merry that there was more he wanted to say as he gazed longingly Southward, but hadn't the energy. Lothlórien. He'd heard the name spoken before—by Aragorn and Gandalf, even Legolas. It was obviously their destination, but Merry wished someone would take the time to tell them exactly what it was and who exactly lived there.

His thoughts turned back to Legolas. Elves were certainly hardy folk, though they did not look it. The elf was tall and lithe, to be sure, but how he had managed to press on, and at such a speed, Merry did not know. When they'd departed Rivendell, he had certainly doubted Legolas' prowess in battle. Even when he'd seen him in action, he still hadn't been quite convinced until the fight had come too close for bow or arrow. Seeing the elf fight with a blade had been a fearsome thing to behold. Legolas had struck fast and fierce—almost like a viper, sure of each movement, his fighting no less deadly for its grace.

Strider had been leading at an almost jog for some time now. The pace was fast, too fast for shorter hobbit legs, anyway. Merry suspected it would have been far more difficult to keep up if the man hadn't slowed for Legolas' sake, though his concession barely eased Merry's difficulty. At other points in their journey, Merry had often found himself quite irritated and annoyed by this tendency to forget that hobbits could not so easily keep pace with their taller friends. What made the point even more irksome was how, when they did remember, the others persisted in treating them as children. They really could not have it both ways. The concepts were both entirely incongruent, and Merry had to confess to himself that for a long while now, he'd been nursing a sullen anger at it all. Perhaps at Bilbo for finding the blasted ring in the first place. And at Gandalf, too, for not safeguarding it better and relieving the hobbits of the responsibility, though he understood better now why.

Now that anger also held a shade of guilt. Gandalf may have treated them as incompetent fools, but reflectively, Merry supposed he had had several more millennia of experience than even Legolas, and if anyone had that right, he supposed the Gray Wizard did-and he had defended them bravely, with his very life. Though Strider had perhaps overtaken him on time spent with him and his kin, Gandalf was far more acquainted with the weaknesses and habits of hobbits. But, Merry thought fiercely, being of small stature and requiring more than a man's average amount of meals did not make one a child. Nor did an appreciation for lazy spring days—but these thoughts weren't helpful. Merry bowed his head and jogged on, hearing only his quick breaths and the pounding of his feet on the road. They'd come to be with Frodo, and with Frodo he would stay, though the adventure had long lost its appeal. Truthfully, it had lost its appeal somewhere between the Old Forest and the Barrow Downs, though he had hoped fervently the worst of the danger had been at Weathertop. Moria had proven him wrong. Whatever that creature had been, it had terrified even the merry elf, and had certainly made the Nazgûl seem a friendlier foe. He shuddered.

The steep decline of the road as it made its way to the lowlands gave haste to their steps, and aside from an occasional missing stone or one that had been displaced, their way was smooth enough. After a bit, he raised his eyes again and watched the spring tripping along beside the worn road. It was such a peaceful reminder of the Shire on a sunny day that Merry nearly wept with homesickness. His feet felt heavy, and not a little sore from the terrain and their fast pace. He'd had stitch stabbing in his side for several minutes now.

Merry looked behind for Frodo and Sam and frowned. They were lagging behind. It wasn't safe for them to fall so far back. At his right, Pippin mirrored his action, and his frown. His younger cousin might have barely escaped his tweenage years, but he was a true adult and not nearly as foolhardy as he might appear, the incident with the rock in the mines notwithstanding.

Ahead Aragorn still hovered on Legolas' left, and Boromir was on his right, either man ready to step in at a moment's notice and support him, but from what little Merry could see, so far the bandages still stood out a stark white and the elf went forward under his own power. Perhaps with Legolas holding his own, the wound was not so dire. It was worry for Sam and Frodo that was foremost in his mind. They'd yet to be tended, nor had they complained. But he could not forget the gut-clenching horror of seeing Frodo hurled against the wall, half skewered. He had to take a deep breath and swallow hard at the bile that suddenly burned his throat. Frodo was _not_ dead, he reminded himself. How, he couldn't say, but that mattered very little. What mattered was that he'd not been killed before their very eyes.

"I wish we had time to give them a good look over." Pippin murmured softly, less out of breath than Merry.

"When we can. It's miraculous, but nothing as dire as it appeared." His cousin gave him a dark look and shuddered.

With each step, it seemed Frodo and Sam fell further and further behind. Merry supposed it was stubborn pride that kept them from saying something. Hobbits could be just as prideful as an elf or dwarf when it came to revealing weaknesses—except for where food was concerned, maybe. More likely, though, it was worry for their companion that was keeping them silent. As long as Legolas kept going, so would those two, he suspected. He looked up again at the sound of an uneven footstep sliding against the road and saw Aragorn catch the elf by the elbow as he stumbled.

Legolas cried out at the sudden jerk, though it was choked off and muffled some by the distance. After the fight in Moria, seeing the elf anything less than graceful, fierce, and sure-footed was alarming. After a moment of staring, he realized why the elf was being so stubborn about making it on his own. If his left arm was over Aragorn's shoulder, it stretched the wound, and if his right arm was over Boromir's shoulder, the most natural place for the man to hold onto him was too near the wound. The elf straightened after a moment, and on they continued at the same brisk speed. Thinking again of Frodo and Sam, Merry frowned suddenly, and revised his assessment of the situation. Aragorn must be very worried indeed to have failed to set a rearguard, or else he expected no further attack until nightfall.

After they had gone on a little ways, Merry glanced behind again. To his dismay, he found that Frodo and Sam had lagged so far behind that they were close to being out of sight entirely. He stopped dead in his tracks and dropped his pack to the ground, alerting others that something was amiss. He could hear Pippin following directly behind him as he rushed backward, retracing their path. Mercifully, he didn't have to go far, and when he reached them, he could see that Frodo was gasping for breath, more so than Merry's huffing and puffing from exertion. Sam was sagging listlessly against him.

"'s okay," the gardener murmured when he perceived they had come, "Jus' a bit dizzy, is all." He shivered, even in the _shining sun_ , and Merry took in their pale faces with growing concern. Perhaps he and Pippin had given in a bit too hastily to their relief. Guilt came again, and he wished he'd spoken up sooner, for their sakes.

Boots sounded on the road behind him as Pippin supported Frodo, and in a moment Aragorn swept past him and knelt in front of the two hobbits. Boromir had retreated also. Looking behind him now, Merry could see Legolas standing in place, hunched slightly at the waist, and watching from ahead. Gimli had paused next to Merry's discarded pack and looked torn between coming to see about the hobbits or making sure someone stayed near the elf.

 _"I am sorry, Frodo!"_ Aragorn was saying, concern in his voice. _"So much has happened this day and we have such need of haste, that I have forgotten that you were hurt; and Sam too. You should have spoken. We have done nothing to ease you, as we ought, though all the orcs of Moria were after us. Come now! A little further on there is a place where we can rest for a little. There I will do what I can for you. Come, Boromir! We will carry them."_

Merry nodded in satisfaction and went to retrieve his pack. Frodo and Sam would now be taken care of. He and Pippin would look help after Legolas. The elf looked at them in some amusement as they approached. "Have you come to be my nursemaids, now?" His voice held a forced merriment that did not match his eyes. Merry could see at once why Aragorn had been so distracted. Up close, the elf was haggard and pale, his eyes were bright, but with pain instead of laughter. With each step there was a low moan of which, the hobbit suspected, the elf was entirely unaware. The bandages, at least, were mostly dry, though the end of the black shaft that peaked out from the middle was disconcerting indeed, especially with the elf pretending nothing was amiss.

"You look awful, laddie," Gimli whispered as he joined them. It was the first time Merry had heard any affection in the dwarf's usual jibe.

They trudged on, Legolas steadying himself from time to time with a hand on their shoulders. Merry noted with some satisfaction that this arrangement was a better one than before, so long as the elf could support his own weight.

 _Soon afterward they came upon another stream that ran down from the west, and joined its bubbling water with the hurrying Silverlode. Together they plunged over a fall of green-hued stone, and foamed down into a dell._ Merry and Pippin slowed to a stop alongside Legolas and peered down. Dusk would soon be upon them, and they could scarce afford a further delay, but they could go no further without rest, and Frodo and Sam were in desperate need of tending. He glanced up at Legolas, who was trembling from the exertion of remaining upright.

Presently, Aragorn joined them, Frodo on his back like an uncle would carry a little nephew. "Do not look so forlorn, Merry, we will rest soon. Here we will leave the road and follow the stream into Lothlórien from the north. I had thought to rest here and continue on the road, but delayed as we are, I think it would be best if we left the road entirely. Continuing beside it in the woods will be more defensible."

So this was the place Strider had mentioned. Merry looked at him in disbelief. "You cannot mean for us all to climb down there."

"I'm afraid I do. This is the last place until we have reached the plains where we can safely leave the road, and we are all weary." He looked at Legolas grimly, and said, "You and Merry stay here and rest, mellon nîn. When the fire is built we will help you down."

My friend. Those two words Merry knew well. Where Legolas was concerned, Aragorn didn't seem to ever bestow the title in Westron.

A flicker of embarrassment crossed the elf's face, but he merely nodded. "Tend the hobbit's first," Legolas waved the man away. "They have waited long enough."

"But—"

"Nothing is yet quite so dire. See to them. I will rest while you do." Merry suspected that what the elf did not say was that he could not actually make it down to the dale without resting first.

Legolas sought out a lone tree not far from the road, as had been his custom since they had set out, and all but collapsed against it. Merry stood and watched as the others climbed down the embankment. It was steep and quite precarious, more mountainside than hill, really just a pile of mossy green rocks. The men had to take great care not to fall with Sam and Frodo, who were nervous enough about the climb down that they had roused considerably. Merry sucked in a sudden breath as Boromir lost his footing, sliding several feet and flailing out with his free hand before he at last found purchase on a larger stone that was sturdily wedged into the embankment wall. Several disturbed stones continued on to the bottom. The man adjusted Sam's weight and regained his balance before continuing onward much more carefully, but the incident had left Merry with a growing concern. Legolas would have a difficult time with the climb down.

Gimli did not appear to be the least bit amused at the man's abilities. He looked heavenward and huffed a bit, muttering to himself every time someone slipped or tried to step on a wobbly rock. He was the last to descend, and unlike the others, turned to hug the rocks that jutted out here and there. He scrambled down the stones with an agility that could only belong to a dwarf. Not a pebble had been disturbed. Merry's eyes narrowed thoughtfully, a promising idea unveiling in his mind. He made a note to ask Gimli to advise Legolas when it can time for them to rejoin the others. Neither man would be able to balance and carry the elf to the bottom, nor there was any room to stand beside him and support his weight, but a dwarf would know which stones were true. Legolas would only have to set aside some of his pride and allow himself to be helped by a dwarf. Merry grimaced. No, that was unlikely—but if Gimli helped Strider, and Strider helped Legolas… Merry grinned. Problem solved.

At last the Company reached the valley floor. _About_ them _stood fir-trees, short and bent._ "Merry! There's whortleberry shrubs to last for days down here!" Pippin called up with excitement.

Merry could not suppress a grin, and his stomach rumbled in agreement. "No need to shout, Pip, the sound carries just fine!"

"Then we will need to be cautious!" Boromir warned darkly. "But gather some up—it has been many hours since our last meal, and we are all in need of some sustenance."

 _At the bottom_ , Merry could see _a level space through which the stream flowed noisily over shining pebbles. It was not nearly_ five _hours after noon, and they had come only a few miles from the Gates._ Sunset was quickly approaching and Merry wished they were all already resting comfortably down below, or better yet in this Lothlórien where they headed.

"We'll be needing a fire." Gimli suggested gruffly.

"Heat some water, too," Aragorn agreed.

Boromir joined the dwarf in gathering loose twigs and branches for a small fire while Pippin retrieved a small pot from Sam's pack and went to collect water from the stream. Merry gave a small chuckle that, even injured, the gardener would not part with his pots. Perhaps soon they would be able to persuade him to part with just a few of the items he had hoarded.

By the time Pip returned, a small fire crackled merrily. Duty discharged, the hungry young hobbit began fast filling up his cloak with copious amounts whortleberries. Merry rolled his eyes, it would be forever stained and the impish behavior would only support the others' ideas that he was still a child.

 _"Good luck, Sam!"_ Aragorn's voice drifted up from below and Merry turned his attention from his berry-picking cousin to the man tending Frodo and Sam. The man was holding the gardener's blond hair out of the way with one hand, while probing at an awful looking gash with the other. Had Aragorn not just made an exclamation of relief, Merry would have been very concerned, indeed. Sam's floppy hair had hidden a wound that looked ugly and grievous indeed. _"Many have received worse than this in payment for the slaying of their first orc. The cut is not poisoned, as the wounds of orc-blades too often are. It should heal well when I have tended it. Bathe it when Gimli has heated water."_

Merry's eyes flashed to Legolas. The elf was observing the scene below in silence, his face drawn with pain, unaware of Merry's gaze on him. Was he so lucky, or was poison weakening his body even now? Surely even elves were susceptible to that? Merry sighed; he really needed to learn some optimism. He'd always been bit of a dark cloud among his kin, but he'd been proven right far too many times to change the habit now.

Strider _opened his pouch and drew_ something out. _"They are dry, and some of their virtue has gone,"_ he was saying, _"but here I have still some of the leaves of athelas that I gathered near Weathertop. Crush one in the water, and wash the wound clean, and I will bind it."_ He passed the delicate herb over to Gimli to be put into the water. " _Now it is your turn, Frodo!"_

 _"I am all right. All I needed was some food and a little rest."_ Merry's eyebrows disappeared into his curly mop of hair as Frodo clutched his coat closed rather prudishly. Now this was interesting.

 _"No!" said Aragorn. "We must have a look and see what the hammer and the anvil have done to you. I still marvel that you are alive at all." Gently he stripped off Frodo's old jacket and worn tunic, and gave a gasp of wonder. Then he laughed._ Merry blinked as a shimmering silver coat of mail was revealed. _Carefully_ the man _took it off and held it up, and the gems on it glittered like stars, and the sound of the shaken rings was like the tinkle of rain in a pool._

Merry's jaw dropped in utter astonishment.

 _"Look, my friends!"_ Strider _called. "Here's a pretty hobbit-skin to wrap an elven-princeling in! If it were known that hobbits had such hides, all the hunters of Middle-earth would be riding to the Shire."_

 _"And all the arrows of all the hunters in the world would be in vain," said Gimli, gazing_ over _in wonder_ from his place tending the fire. _"It is mithril-coat. Mithril! I have never seen or heard tell of one so fair. Is this the coat that Gandalf spoke of? Then he undervalued it. But it was well given!"_

 _"I have often wondered what you and Bilbo were doing, so close in his little room,"_ called down _Merry. "Bless the old hobbit! I love him more than ever. I hope we get a chance of telling him about it."_

His mirth died when he looked back to share a smile with Legolas and saw that the elf had barely noticed the exchange. The frown that appeared only deepened when he turned his attention back downward and laid eyes on the _dark and blackened bruise on Frodo's right side and breast._ It must be quite severe indeed if it could be seen so clearly from this distance.

 _While the others set the food ready, Aragorn bathed the hurts with water in which athelas was steeped. The pungent fragrance filled the dell, and_ Merry felt all the hurts of the day fade away. He looked at Legolas and saw that he, too, was resting easier, walking in dreams. The lines of pain had faded from his face, and his open eyes gazed into nothingness. Merry wasn't sure he'd ever get used to the strange way elves slept, but strange or not he was glad the elf was able to rest.

Pippin scrambled back up and, after depositing a small pile of whortleberries in front of Legolas, plopped down next to Merry. The both of them hungrily munched on the berries and sipped some water, but the elf's portion remained untouched. For the moment, though, Merry was content. He would take the rest that was offered. The sweet aroma of the athelas wafted up to him and soothed his spirit, and he felt a trace of optimism return for the first time in a fortnight.

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To be continued...

As always, any feedback is welcome and appreciated.


	4. Chapter Four

A/N: Still not mine. Based on some of the discussion in the actual text of _The Fellowship of the Ring,_ I've made the assumption that some members of the Fellowship know little about where they are headed beyond a name on a map. Legolas, obviously, would know, and Aragorn, Tolkien tells us, has been there before. Boromir has heard strange tales. I find it safe to assume the hobbits and Gimli would have had little, if any knowledge of the Golden Wood. Also, for ease of reading, I've decided to use italics to denote emphasis _and_ quotes from Tolkien. Single words are probably mine and being emphasized, phrases and sentences are quotes.

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Chapter Four

Guilt weighed heavily on Aragorn as he tended Sam and Frodo. They had suffered for his distraction, yet had not uttered a single complaint. When he'd first, finally, given a good long look at Sam, fear and sadness had warred in his heart. At first glance, the wound had looked so grievous, and the thought that Sam might have been hurrying after him, cut to the bone, head pounding, felt like a physical blow.

But it had not been so. The cut was shallow and already clotted. It would look much improved once cleansed of the crusted blood. Boromir would bind it so that it would trouble the gardener little more. Yet how could he have forgotten such a thing? Though they had become like brothers, while on this quest, Legolas could be no more important to him than any other member of the Fellowship. Even _he_ would have said something before now if their positions had been reversed, despite the Balrog, despite the weight of Gandalf's fate. Gandalf, who had been so weary, so much so that Aragorn had known fear, even before the Balrog had shown itself.

And Frodo. Now that had been one of the surprises of his long life, and joyously so, yet even with the mithril, the hobbit was in no small amount of pain. _Under the mail there_ had been _a shirt of soft leather, but at one point the rings had been driven through it into the flesh_ , a testimony to the force of the blow. _Frodo's left side also was scored and bruised where he had been hurled against the wall._ The Ringbearer was quite fortunate no ribs had been broken. It had been a close thing, and the one area where luck, fickle though she was, had decided in the Company's favor. His hands faltered a bit in their binding as his mind's eye pictured the wound that might have been. Frodo could have died. _Should_ have died. Only the mithril had spared him. They might jest about the surprise treasure they had found, but they were all grateful.

By the time he was mechanically securing two soft pads over Frodo's blackening skin, a task he could do in his sleep, Aragorn's mind had returned to the friend he could do very little for. Half a vial of painkiller yet remained, and a sedative, but neither would make up for lost speed and agility.

Dusk approached. Light remained, but the noise of twilight was beginning to grow around the dell as the insects welcomed the night. In his heart, he felt only resignation. He couldn't prevent them meeting the orcs now—they were no longer be able to outrun them. With rest and the tending of wounds, their odds of hiding from or losing the orcs in the Golden Wood were better. They were so very near it, but still much too far to give him comfort when he took into account the short-legged hobbits and the dwarf-and Legolas. Especially Legolas. At best maybe a few miles lay between them and the orcs.

"Aragorn—we must continue on. We cannot linger here any longer." Boromir no longer bothered to hide his restless impatience. Aragorn couldn't blame him—all his own choices had gone ill.

At last he nodded, "As soon as we can."

The man seemed to grit his teeth, but he kept his peace.

Climbing back up the embankment was far easier than climbing down had been. When he reached the top, he could not hold in a chuckle of amusement at the two hobbits munching on berries as if it were a fine spring day in the Shire.

"We offered Legolas some," Pippin defended somewhat guiltily, though if Aragorn was not mistaken, it appeared to be feigned. He took a long look at the youngest hobbit, but already the playful mask was firmly in place, as if he'd never been anything other than merry.

Aragorn laughed outright anyway. Truthfully, it warmed his heart that they could still manage a carefree moment. He himself was ever on guard, ever weighing their options and chances. Before he could shift his attention to Legolas, Merry paused and caught his attention, berry halfway to his mouth. "You should ask Gimli to help. I noticed he chose the best path down."

Aragorn straightened at the challenge in Merry's tone. Of course. Why hadn't it occurred to him that the dwarf would know how rock behaved better than any? To their folly, he had been under utilizing him. He looked at Merry again. He always had been more quiet and curious than the others. He alone of the hobbits had not gone drinking in Bree, but had gone to look around and scout out the situation. He was careful, calculating, and curious—perhaps he was another underestimated and underutilized.

"I'll have him coach our way down," he conceded.

At last, he glanced at his friend. The elf was resting against a tree, his right hand draped over his torso, guarding it. His blue eyes stared sightlessly. He was so very still—too still. Aragorn's breath caught and his heart began to race. He scrambled across the remaining few feet between them, not caring that his feet slid clumsily over the loose dirt. His hands trembled uncertainly as he checked the pulse point in the elf's neck. He was so still, unnaturally still, but blood thrummed reassuringly beneath his fingertips. Legolas' heart raced, even in sleep, but the beat was strong and sure. Aragorn raked a hand through his scraggly hair and let out a shaky breath. He hadn't had a scare like that from a sleeping elf since he was a boy. The sleep itself was concerning, though. Legolas had less need of it than a man, and that he was so exhausted hinted at graver circumstances than mere blood loss. He hoped it was only a need for rest.

"The athelas lulled him to sleep, but he needed it so we let him be." Merry eyed him apprehensively.

"It's worse than he's been letting on isn't it?"

Aragorn sighed. His own nightmares were resurfacing to haunt him. He weighed his words several times before finally replying, "Legolas has a long history of downplaying his own hurts, but I've no right to be in such fear for him."

As he spoke, he inspected the bandages, reassured to find only a slight amount of bleeding. Being an elf, his body was already trying to heal itself, but the wound couldn't heal entirely, until the arrow was moved. As long as the bleeding was controlled, Legolas had time. Aragorn firmly banished any thoughts of what might yet go ill. The area around the wound was a bit swollen, but not excessively so. "He's in no danger of dying this night," he added, forcing an optimism he did not feel into his voice.

He found himself unable to voice his deepest fears. In his mind's eye, he could see his own hands treating similar wounds over the years—slicing, searching, stitching—and always with mixed outcomes. Even under Lord Elrond's skilled hands, he'd seen events quickly turn dire—wounds that suddenly bled rivers of red, or fevers that took hold and would not break. His breath hitched and he shook himself back to the present, busying himself with his friend. There was no overt fever yet. Legolas' skin was cool and slightly clammy, but poison—whether from the arrow or an infection—was all too common. A fever was likely to take hold soon, but save for fresh bandages, nothing could be done until the morning, not here in the wild, if they were to remain undetected by orcs.

"Will you remove the arrow now?"

Aragorn almost jerked at Pippin's voice. He'd not noticed the hobbit moving so close beside him. He sighed. There was no time, and Legolas would suffer all the more for the delay. "It is too close to nightfall, and even if it were not, we cannot tarry here long enough to do so. It is safer to wait—until we are safely in Caras Galadhon, if we are able."

He gave Legolas him a gentle shake, "Wake up, mellon nîn."*

The elf twitched a bit.

"Legolas!" He had expected the elf to rouse while he talked with the hobbits. He gave him another shake, as jarring as he dared, and at last the elf stirred, his blue eyes clearing of dreams. Almost immediately, his peaceful face clenched against the pain, but his eyes were alert and clear...and fearful.

"Yrch telir, Estel*!" He hissed, trying to sit upright and failing.

But Aragorn could hear nothing over the sounds of the crickets and cicadas. Still, a hand went to his sword. He had expected this, though perhaps not this soon. He had known the orcs would pursue them as night fell, but all their plans had gone ill. There was still light yet, but they had not come far enough from the gates, and if Legolas said orcs were coming, then orcs were coming.

Hiding his alarm, he clasped the elf's shoulder. "How near?"

"A few miles, the trees whisper that orcs have begun passing beneath their boughs, crawling out of the shadows of Moria. You know their speed will increase as it grows darker."

Aragorn unclenched his fingers from his sword. They yet had time to flee, not endlessly so, but they still maintained a head start.

"Estel—" Legolas had that look on his face that he got when he'd made a decision, and Aragorn knew exactly what that decision would be, and he couldn't allow himself to consider it. Not yet.

" _Baw_!* It's not as dire as that yet. Let's get you off the road before any decisions are made," he cajoled, "Orcs or not, I'm not leaving you here to wait for them by the roadside. Below, at least, you'll have places to hide." He fumbled in his pouch until his fingers closed around the correct vial, and he pressed it into the elf's hand. "Here. Drink it all."

Returning to embankment, he saw that Boromir was already dousing the fire while Gimli gathered up packs and refilled the water skins in the stream. He called softly, his voice a sharp whisper, "Gimli—I have need of you."

He turned to find the hobbits waiting expectantly, confusion and distress plain on their faces. Belatedly, he realized that they'd understood none of his conversation with Legolas. He motioned toward the dell with a raise of his chin. "Go on down, and help make ready to leave. We are already pursued."

Understanding crossed their faces and they scrambled down without needing to be told twice, fear of the orcs overcoming any lingering fear of heights.

He looked at Legolas. At any other time, he would have thrown him over his shoulder, but his injury meant they would be forced to do it the hard way, so instead he placed a hand firmly under each arm and pulled.

"On your feet." His unspoken apology was in his voice. A high pitched keening sound escaped the elf's clamped lips as he pushed himself upright, his breath coming in little strangled gasps. He swayed suddenly as his face lost what little color it had had and his knees went out from under him. Aragorn grunted at the sudden weight, only his strength keeping the elf from sliding straight back to the ground.

Legolas' legs flailed weakly for a foothold. He shuddered, then turned his head and wretched painfully. Aragorn's arms shook with the effort of holding him upright, but after a moment, the elf began to take more of his own weight. A few seconds more and, at last, he stood under his own power. Aragorn took in his dark ringed eyes and bloodless lips with considerable worry. There was nothing more he could give him to dull the pain, and the elf looked like a light breeze would blow him over.

"I am sorry, but you know we must rejoin the others, and I fear we have run out of time."

They turned to find Gimli waiting expectantly below, having stopped at about the halfway point, no thought other than concern on his face. He seemed to know what was expected of him.

"You know the trees, and trust them," he said, and not unkindly, "but I know the stones—both their strength and deceitfulness. Let's get you down." The elf stilled, almost as if he was looking through the dwarf before he finally relaxed, wounded pride in his eyes. At last he gave a single nod.

Easing his arms away, Aragorn let the elf test his own weight. He seemed to have regained his equilibrium and Aragorn was pleased to see a bit more color in his face.

"Alright, then." Gimli, likely sensing they could delay no further, took charge of the situation. "Turn around both of you. Aragorn, you will climb down just below Legolas. Lean into the hillside for support. Laddie—you just pretend for a moment you're climbing one of your trees. Quickly, now."

Aragorn gave a chuckle, but that Legolas allowed himself to take instructions from a dwarf with no comment to ease his pride concerned him. He was truly reaching the end of his strength. Even Gimli seemed to sense it, for the dwarf made no attempt at his usual jabs.

Gimli climbed several feet below them, then looked up and called for them to begin. This would not be an easy descent.

"Aragorn, to your left—that large flat stone about a foot down."

Aragorn twisted a bit until he could see it and stepped cautiously down. The rock held without the slightest wobble.

"Now move your right foot slightly down and to the left."

Aragorn obeyed and was pleased to find the footholds ample enough to release his hand holds. Under any other circumstances, he thought Gimli would have gloated and admonished the Fellowship not to ignore the skills of a dwarf, but the dwarf merely called up, "Your turn now, Legolas."

The elf trembled violently, his arms shaking as he struggled to grip his handholds. Aragorn's kept his hands at the elf's waist as he stretched one foot and placed it just in front of Aragorn, and then did the same with the other, a deep guttural groan escaping with each intake of breath.

At Gimli's instruction, Aragorn stepped to the right, and then climbed to another foothold, supporting as much of Legolas' weight as he could. They quickly realized that the elf no longer had the strength to grip any handhold above his head, his balance depending solely on Aragorn as they picked their way down. One false step, and—though Aragorn would likely be able to regain his own footing—the elf would fall. On they went, slowly and excruciatingly down the embankment, but never once did a stone slip, or even waver, underneath their feet.

At last, they reached the bottom of the vale, Legolas' clothes soaked and his skin clammy. By this time, the sun had disappeared on the horizon and the shadows of evening were taking hold. In just a few minutes, the night would begin darkening around them. Aragorn turned to find that the rest of the Company had crowded around, watching anxiously as they took their final steps down from the road. They were ready to depart. All traces off the small fire had been covered, and they all had a wary alertness about them.

In the dim light that remained, Aragorn could see the darkened bandages at Legolas' left side. Careful though they had been, the climb down had caused a good deal of bleeding. Even the upper thigh of the elf's leggings was soaked, but there could be no rest, or even time for fresh bandages. Already Boromir was edging the others southward, but Aragorn resisted. Legolas had yet to take a single step to follow.

"Estel." Legolas waited until he had his attention, " _Fasto!*_ I am pleading with you, and you all _must_ listen. They are coming—drawing very near now." Legolas' words were halting and urgent, for he'd taken no time to catch his breath, nor to recover from the climb down.

Aragorn could see the rest of the Company watching anxiously. He knew that tone. He knew what the elf was asking of him. They all knew. The tone a commander gives to his subordinate when the battle must be won at all costs. The sacrifice play. Grief swelled in his chest. "I cannot leave you, gwador,* do not ask it of me." His voice was thick, his words whispered.

He received only a cold glance from a prince, not the warm gentleness of a friend. "Then you endanger the mission, and place the Ringbearer in grave danger. I have sworn-you have sworn-to aid in this quest. The ring cannot fall into their hands. You know this. We have tarried far too long on my account. You _must_ lead the others to Lothlórien with all haste."

It seemed for a moment he'd overcome the weakness of his wound, and that he would be able to rally and flee with them, but even the effort of speaking so forcefully had cost him and his chest heaved as his lungs struggled to regain the lost air. Though he had fallen silent, his eyes yet spoke, pleading and commanding.

The duty of a king and the bond of a friend tore at him. "I cannot just leave you here to face them alone." Aragorn answered at last in defeat. A king should put his people first, but his oldest and trusted friend, who had seen adventures uncounted with him, who had refused to leave him in similar circumstances…he simply could not leave injured and alone for the orcs to find.

The elf seemed to sense his thoughts, but even his strength to speak was spent.

Aragorn was frozen. Friendship, it seemed, had blinded him to the path that must be taken. He looked desperately from face to face at the rest of the company, as if they could offer a solution. He saw both understanding and resignation, and grief. The hobbits couldn't know the fate of an elf taken by orcs, for if they had, the horror in his heart would have been mirrored on their faces.

Suddenly, a throat was clearing, "You won't be leaving him alone. I will stay with the elf."

"Gimli…"

"Quiet, laddie, you've no say. It's my thinking that the elves of this strange wood won't admit a dwarf so easily, especially with no elf to vouch for him. It seems to me that by going with you, I would hinder your arriving to safety."

Aragorn opened his mouth, then shut it again, unsure whether to argue further, or to thank him, but his answer died on his lips as everyone began to hear what Legolas had been hearing for some time. The orcs were coming, and they were making no effort to conceal their size and numbers.

"We must get out of sight!" Boromir hissed.

Legolas seemed to shove him backward with his very eyes, " _Meno!"*_

* * *

*Mellon nîn=my friend

*Yrch telir, Estel=Orcs come, Estel.

*Baw=No!

*Fasto=Please!

*gwador=sworn brother

*Meno=Go!

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As always, I love hearing from my readers! Tell me what you loved. Tell me what you didn't love. Tell me what I could do better!


	5. Chapter Five

A/N: Tolkien dreamed up all the original characters and plot, not me.

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Chapter Five

Even in the face of the orcs' approach, Aragorn still would not move and Boromir was beginning to think his feet would leave of their own accord. The Ring wanted to be found, and if Aragorn could not see his folly, then all would be lost. His precious elven lands. Gondor. _Especially_ Gondor. He understood honor, but those thoughts that contradicted his current restlessness seemed dull, as if they belonged to another person entirely. The Ranger was frozen with indecision. With grief, really. Hardly the actions and manner of a king. A king's priority should be to his own people.

Deep down, he supposed, it was true honor, not to leave a friend, and in times past, he himself would have been hard pressed to give up his duty to a companion. But the Ring—Gondor _needed_ it. Even Faramir would not have stood in the way of Gondor's salvation. Even the elf didn't. He was _begging_ the man to leave. For pity's sake, even Gimli understood. The Ring came first. It could not be allowed to fall into enemy hands. That settled it in his mind. Aragorn could catch up. Clenching his jaw against any protests, whether from the others or within his own mind, he began propelling the others southward, and quickly. The orcs would be on the road above them any minute.

The company fled, staying just inside the tree line where it met the embankment that climbed up to the ancient road. They could hear the orcs growing closer on the open road. After a moment, Aragorn rejoined them, but his expression was hidden in the darkening night. Boromir could only glower at him.

The anticipation of battle had a way of making a person forget hurts or weariness, and, though the trees impeded their speed, they also gave shelter. Being down the embankment gave the Company a head start. Even Boromir found that Aragorn's plan to stay off the road to be a sound one—until the dale dropped away into a wide open plain, its tall grasses waving under the starlit sky. They could easily be overtaken on the open plain. The Silverlode divided it, and they were fortunate—had it been spring, the entire plain would have been flooded with the melting mountain snow. To this point the orcs had not yet caught up with them, to his surprise, but they could not avoid the inevitable. He steeled himself to continue on across the plain, folly or not.

"Wait! We will be seen!" Aragorn hissed, grabbing at Frodo's cloak and pulling him back just as the trees fell away. They all stopped instantly and withdrew back to the treeline. More clearly, he said, "We must remain beneath the shelter of the trees until it is safe to move on. We've a better chance of evading them if we wait here until they pass, but we will need to be watchful for any scouting parties."

Now that they had paused, it seemed the orcs grew louder by the second, gaining ground now that their quarry had stilled. No one moved, fearing to make the slightest sound, or to even breathe. Through the sparse trees, they could make out their grotesque shadows on the road in the darkness. Boromir guessed there were at least one hundred. They went on and on in disorganized companies until finally, they had passed.

The Fellowship left the dale then, continuing onto the plain a bit more assured of their safety. With relief came a clearing in Boromir's mind. He gazed up at the stars for a moment and felt the weight of shame at his desperation. Yet a part of his mind saw no dishonor, and was still adamant that the Ring must be protected at all costs.

They had not been jogging on the plain for even five minutes, when an orc horn sounded in the distance. Perhaps a mile away, two at the most. Boromir's head snapped up and back to the North

"Get down!" He commanded.

At his warning, the others dove into the grasses beside him. He hoped the tall grasses would be enough to conceal them, and that the orcs would only be concerned with answering the call. At first there was only silence, but he didn't dare give the all clear. To his relief, it seemed Aragorn agreed. Just when he was beginning to wonder if it had been a false alarm, the orcs rumbled past them, barreling down the road in the direction they had come. A few scouts even came from the plain, rushing past within several feet of them. His hand went to his dagger, prepared to soundlessly cut down any who spotted them.

They huddled down for several more minutes before Aragorn cautiously stood again. It seemed that, despite the folly of their many delays, they had been successful in evading the orcs.

"What _was_ that?" Merry exclaimed softly as he rose, dusting off his coat.

"Likely a scouting party calling for reinforcements," Aragorn answered grimly.

Frodo's eyes snapped to the Ranger. "Do you think they've found Gimli and Legolas?"

"There is nothing we can do to change what is happening behind us," Boromir cut in. "No matter what has happened, this is our chance, and we cannot waste it."

The hobbits bristled at this command, and he was surprised, and gratified, when Aragorn finally voiced his agreement. "They've at least discovered our trail. That does not mean they've found Legolas and Gimli, and neither would want us to return for their sake when we have no way of knowing for certain that they are in any danger. They are resourceful. We should not doubt them. Boromir is right. Our paths have diverged from the others, and this night, our duty is to the quest, to reach the safety of Lothlórien-and we have need of haste. If they have found our trail, we will be pursued all the faster."

"Keep an eye out, there may yet be orcs scouting ahead." Boromir cautioned. They had been granted a reprieve, but he felt deep in his gut that before the night was out, they would have to stand and fight. The little folk were no warriors, and while the two men would defend them to the death, if necessary, they would not provide a lengthy protection against such a large party of orcs. Yet, if they could not, the mission would fail. He could see now that the Ring must be taken to Minas Tirith, if it was not already too late. He must persuade Aragorn of that.

 _Aragorn led the Company on for nearly three more hours._ Their pace was quite urgent, and Boromir was glad to give speed to his restless anxiety, though their pace was yet too cautious to be frantic. He'd never been patient. That was Faramir. Faramir was the patient one, who plotted strategy and read books. He himself was more appreciative of brute strength and the decisive handling of a conflict. Why complicate matters unnecessarily?

 _Mist rose in the hollows_ and settled low over the plain. The hobbits were almost impossible to see amidst the tall grass. In the deepening night, guilt began to weigh on Boromir. The more he wrestled with his thoughts on leaving the elf, he found he both admired and cringed at Aragorn's reluctance to leave him behind. And thinking of the elf raised another worry. How was Aragorn so certain they would be allowed to enter a forbidden realm without the elven part of the Company? It had been clear from the start that it would be their destination after their crossed the Misty Mountains, but Gimli had spoken truthfully—and Boromir found it likely they would be hard pressed to be met as friends. They had _heard in Gondor of that perilous land, and it_ was _said that few come out who once_ went _in; and of that few none escaped unscathed_. Yet Aragorn spoke of it as a refuge. Now, like his protestations about Moria, it seemed that they'd given themselves only one option for retreat. A _plain road_ through the swords of orcs seemed more certain—and more preferable-than this Golden Wood.

Aragorn's frequent backward glances as they traversed the plain had more to do, he suspected, with worry for the elf than worry for their pursuers, since they would likely hear the orcs before they ever saw them.

All they had heard for hours was the pounding of his and Aragorn's boots bruising the grasses of the plain, and the Silverlode gurgling beside them. The hobbits' feet were surprisingly quiet. There was a good chance they could sneak away undetected in the tall grass when the time came. The Company stumbled frequently over the unfamiliar and uneven terrain due to their speed, but they had not still not sighted the forest. He wasn't sure, if it were light, if he would see it looming or not. Above them, _many clear stars_ had begun to twinkle, _but the fast-waning moon would not be seen till late._ It would be a dark night, and Boromir was again beginning to feel restless and exposed on the plain. He and Aragorn could be easily seen if they did not have a care, and the road lay to their right, unrolled like a carpet on the plain, the embankment now only a slight slope as the land flattened.

It was Sam who first heard the orcs' return, and to his credit, he did not stop to listen, instead picking up his pace and puffing, "They're coming, Strider." No one needed to be told to move more quickly-they all seemed to find a faster speed despite the many hours of running they had already endured. It was fortunate they had been able to ease Sam and Frodo at the dell, for there was no time now to cater to the injured.

It was some time before Boromir could hear their pursuers. Apparently hobbit ears were more sensitive than his own. Yet, after several minutes, he began to hear their movements, and as they drew closer, he could hear them talking excitedly in their guttural language. It was then Boromir realized the orcs were coming from behind them, not the road where they might pass them by a second time. They had indeed picked up their trail. The hobbits could go no faster, and the distance between the orcs and their quarry was quickly lessening. He could hear their metal armor grating from their fast pace, aided by darkness and malice.

He sensed the change in the orcs' pursuit and knew the instant they'd been spotted. There was nowhere to hide, no defensible position. He'd begun to spot a lone tree here and there, but that meant little. The wood was still an unknown distance away. Their only chance was to keep moving. If they stopped, they would be surrounded.

Retrieving his shield from its place over his pack, he slid his arm through its braces and held it at the ready. Its weight was reassuring and grounding. Already, his mind scrambled to find a strategy. Aragorn had no shield. Even if the hobbits had been seasoned warriors, by stature alone, they would be hard-pressed to defend themselves. There was a reason dwarves were so heavily armored and chose axes over swords. In trousers and coats, the hobbits were completely vulnerable, with the exception of Frodo.

Bitterness over not being able to see the ring to Minas Tirith kindled an anger within him. He'd had no intention to go to Mordor, but this was not how he wanted things to end. He wanted his city restored—the might of Gondor restored.

"Get behind us. Keep us between you and the orcs at all times."

He slowed so the stragglers would be behind him when the orcs reached him. They were innocents in all this. He wasn't happy they had been permitted to come, but he bore them no ill will. They carded through the grass until they were to his south. He and Aragorn a rear guard, they would fend the orcs off as long as possible so the hobbits could flee. Shadows approached, gradually becoming clearer in the starlight.

They stood several paces away, sizing them up. Two broke ranks to challenge them, sacrificed for a test of their strength. The clash was fierce and quick. They hardly stopped, just deflected and kept moving backward. Stop. Engage. Break free. The rage grew in his chest. They would soon be surrounded and it would be over. He could only deflect and parry. There was no time to keep track of the hobbits, even Frodo. They would have to take responsibility for staying out of the way.

A glance as he ran revealed Merry with his sword drawn. Apparently the Halflings needed to be brought up to speed on the plan. "Don't fight! You cannot win. You cannot help. Run!"

The orcs kept coming, one after the other, and-while they had no real talent with the blade-they certainly weren't laying down their lives so easily.

"You cannot mean to stand alone!" Boromir wasn't sure to which hobbit belonged the indignant and horrified voice, and for a moment rage at his failure clouded all his thoughts. Did no one understand that the orcs could not be allowed to have the Ring?

The forest loomed ahead suddenly, both sheltering and unknown. All misgivings fled at the sight of refuge, and relief unclenched in his chest as hope filtered through his anger. It was chaos. Orcs littered the ground in front of him. Aragorn kicked and parried and whirled next to him. Behind him, even Frodo got in a good jab now and then when an orc got too close, but the hobbits still weren't fleeing as they should. The tall grasses began to fade away, and with them gone, the hobbits would be sheltered no longer. A shadow dove at him from his left and he whirled his shield around to deflect the blow—that one had come from behind. Any minute they would be completely surrounded. With each pause to deflect, the orcs gained ground and more swarmed around them to take the place of those that had been slain.

Then, to his dismay, he could hear Merry and Pippin shouting over the fray and making a racket with their swords like there were ten of themselves. Boromir wanted to turn and scold them, and to see what they were up to, but he dared not divert his attention from the onslaught in front of him. He could hear them shouting. Their jesting tone perplexed him. Where those…insults? An orc horn blew again, and, to his horror, at least half of the force ahead of him broke off and gave chase to something to his left. His gut churned in horror.

"Merry?! Pippin?!" He still couldn't spare a look over his shoulder, but the silence told him all he needed to know.

He cut down another orc. They would be dead. Two helpless hobbits against fifty orcs.

"No!" Frodo's anguished cry was cut off as Sam, he supposed, clapped a hand over his mouth. Boromir's eyes stung, but the heat of battle was no time to give in to grief. Merry and Pippin had charmed him with their smiles and banter, and he could not fathom their end at the hands of orcs. From the corner of his eye, he could see the blue glow of Frodo's sword. Sam had all but tackled his master to keep him from racing after them. At least someone was keeping his head. As it was, several orcs had turned and pursued the sound. Aragorn lunged to the right and blocked them, hacking them down with a furious growl, buying the two hobbits time to slip out of sight.

The orcs had almost completely surrounded them now, and Aragorn realized it, too. If Frodo and Sam did not go now, they would be caught in the ring of orcs encircling them. If they could just get to the forest, maybe they would have a chance of evading them, but they needed to slip through before the gap closed.

"Run! Due South! Follow the Silverlode. There is another stream-cross it and keep running until a marchwarden stops you." Aragorn's words were breathless and urgent.

"And be silent, for pity's sake!" Boromir muttered, jabbing at an orc trying to slip between himself and Aragorn. Suspicion grew in his mind, and then anger. The Ranger knew far too much about this Lothlórien. He spoke as if he had been there before, yet he had not volunteered his knowledge to any of them. Boromir could only hope these strange elves would aid the Ringbearer. His thoughts darkened-and that they would not try to keep the Ring for themselves.

An instant more and the orcs had closed the circle and were pressing towards them. He couldn't see if Sam and Frodo had slipped through, and had no time to seek them out. He settled back to back with Aragorn. There was no thought, only instinct. Deflect. Parry. Deflect. Jab. He lost himself to the rhythm of the fight, and it became as if he was fighting his way out of another scrape with Faramir-Soldier of Gondor and Ranger of Ithilien.

Even with his shield, he was hard pressed to deflect the many blows. The orcs were pressed in so closely now that they were cutting each other in their attempts to breech his defenses. He barely had space to use his sword, so many were the enemy pressing against them. His left side relied entirely on his shield, and his right on his sword arm.

It would only take one jab, one false parry in the dance of battle for it all to be over. They could manage ten, twenty even, with better light, but here they'd been forced to their defenses, and they couldn't hold forever. He still hadn't caught a glimpse or heard anything of Frodo and Sam, or of Merry and Pippin. But the orcs pursuing them had yet to return to handle the men. Still, the sheer number of orcs overwhelmed them. The only saving grace was that he and Aragorn were far more accomplished in swordplay than these savages, who were neither particularly bright nor cunning.

Without room to properly swing his sword, he had to put power behind his deflections, using the force of his shield to propel the orcs backward while slashing to the right with his sword arm, but it was not enough to push them back completely…and it was causing him to tire quickly.

They need an opening to break through the orcs surrounding them. The trees were their only option if they wanted to live until morning. No words were exchanged, but singlemindedly they kicked and slashed, throwing all their weight behind each blow-putting all their strength into pushing the circle of orcs out. Separating slightly was risky, but they needed to force the orcs to spread out. The footing was difficult in the dark. Dead orcs littered the ground beneath them. One stumble, and it was very likely they wouldn't get back up.

"We must break through. Do not stop!"

An orc blade made a deep cut into his sword arm, and his sword was almost wrenched from his grip. This could not go on. Behind him, he could hear the frenzied ring of steel on steel. Aragorn had no shield, and his movements were beginning to slow. He was in real danger of being run through. There was no more time for defenses that merely knocked back one's opponent. If they were to break through, the orcs needed to go down and stay down. Maybe they would die either way, but if they didn't try, they surely would. Boromir's back was protected only as long as Aragorn's defenses held.

The orcs in front of him were quite startled when he dropped his shield, but with their pause, he was already drawing his dagger and slashing at the closest one. With a roar, he thrust his sword into the closest orc and stabbed with his dagger at the one coming up on his far left. He narrowly missed a blow that came from his right as another orc stepped into the gap. This one he also slew, leaping over its body and knocking another to the ground, and then another and another.

The risk had bought their freedom, and they both swept past the orcs encircling them and into the tree line, twisting and parrying. They couldn't stop. The orcs had thinned, unable to see them so easily, instead following the sounds of the fight as the men ran from trunk to trunk. The great gray trunks hid them in the moonlight.

If they could just get ahead enough, they might yet evade them. His lungs burned with exertion, but renewed hoped chased away his weariness.

In silence, he sprang from tree to tree. He could no longer hear Aragorn, but when he caught a glimpse of him, he saw that the man had sheathed his sword and was moving stealthily along, dagger in hand. The man had experience fighting in the trees, and Boromir found that he trusted it in the same way he trusted Faramir's skills in the woods.

His own sword handle was slick with the blood running down his arm, but he dared not stop to tend it. Though the battle was less frantic, their foes still outnumbered them, and the enemy could come on them from any direction in this wood. They would have to rely on stealth. He could only hope these strange elves that Aragorn apparently knew might hear their plight and come to their aid. Even if they were not friendly toward the men, surely they wouldn't allow orcs to roam freely over their lands? Legolas had not given him that impression when he had spoken of the plight of Mirkwood.

Following Aragorn's lead, he sheathed his sword, using his dagger to silently dispatch any orcs who stumbled in to him, never stopping long enough for them to detect him. His heart still raced from the heat of battle, and his mind was flooded with the pleasant disbelief that they might actually live.

The deeper into the forest they went, the fewer orcs they encountered, but he could see no sign of the Halflings. _Under the night the trees stood tall before them, arched over the road and stream. In the dim light of the stars their stems were grey, and their quivering leaves a hint of fallow gold._

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Thank you so much for reading! This chapter was difficult to write, and really stretched my skills. Any feedback would be quite welcome!


	6. Chapter Six

A/N: I don't own _The Lord of the Rings_.

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Chapter Six

After the climb down the embankment, Legolas was desperate to heave air into his lungs, but instead he forced his body to submit to him. He needed to appear strong, despite the waves of agony threatening his efforts at remaining conscious. The others had already begun to flee, but still Estel lingered. The guilt in Aragorn's eyes when he at last came to his senses and relented told Legolas the man's mind was decades in the past.

" _Now at this last, we must take a hard road_ , _"_ he whispered, echoing Lord Elrond's words to their Company. He had always known that at some point they would have to choose the good of many over their friendship—probably should have years ago, but then Aragorn be alive and being forced to leave him now. He forced himself to hold the man's gaze, and at last Estel's shoulders dropped and his stature seemed to shrink. The man looked away, shoving his pouch into Gimli's hands. And then he was gone, disappearing into the dark mists after the others. There had been no goodbye, for that would have been too painful. Too final. That he would return for them did not have to be voiced.

"Don't do anything I would do," he whispered to himself darkly in farewell. How coldly he had pushed Estel away. He stood frozen, his weakening knees threatening to send him to the ground.

"There's a vein of rock to the northeast that looks promising, mayhap we can find a shelter there."

Legolas blinked. He had forgotten about the dwarf. They needed to hide, and quickly, but his body felt heavy and disobedient. His eyes went to the trees around them, but the wound at his side already pained him viciously, and the fir trees had no low hanging bows. Finding shelter there was as likely as finding shelter in a hole in the ground.

The approach of the orcs was louder now. "Aye," Legolas acknowledged at last, his words thick in his mouth, "but we haven't the time to scout it out." His pride would not yet allow him to admit aloud that it was because he could no longer move swiftly enough. He wasn't certain he could move at all. Now that he'd convinced Aragorn to leave, the show was over and his strength was sapped.

Gimli gave him an appraising look, and Legolas found to his chagrin that the dwarf hadn't been the least bit fooled by his show of strength. He sighed, he supposed the dwarf deserved an honest appraisal of their chances. Gimli would likely stay in the open with him if he made no attempt at concealment, and the sounds of the orcs had begun to drown out the merry rushing of the stream.

The dwarf seemed to read his thoughts. "We have to get out of the open. Can you make it to the falls? Perhaps if they don't see us, they'll not look for us. I'd bet my second axe there's a divot behind the falls, and it's not far."

"Only your second axe?" His own voice sounded strange to his ears—raspy and halting. Legolas wasn't sure that gave him much confidence, but he hadn't the energy to truly provoke the dwarf. The fall in question was only a few paces away, yet it felt too far. They'd have to cross the stream and climb up a bit to access it, and he was so very tired. Instead, he replied, "Aye, I'll make it." But he couldn't seem to will himself to move.

"Come on, laddie." The dwarf's gentle voice finally cut through the fog. He'd stepped closer, a note of hurry in his speech, "You can't just stand here and let a dwarf take credit for dragging you to safety."

Legolas sighed, but didn't bother to retort that Gimli was too short to drag him anywhere. Any moment, the orcs would round the bend of the road. Just a little longer and he could rest. His legs trembled as he followed Gimli across the cold stream. The icy water swirled just above his ankles, but was nearly mid-calf on the dwarf. The rocks on the bottom were smooth and slippery from mountain flow. He knew the dwarf had slowed for his sake, yet it felt impossible to keep up. With a dwarf. His father would not be amused. His foot slipped suddenly, and agony lanced through him, the icy water soaking his leggings as his knees crashed down into the stream, his arm thrown out to catch himself.

With whom did he jest? His father would be in anguish if he saw him like this. He tried and failed to stand. Then the dwarf was there, hauling him upright. He was saying something, but what it was, he hadn't the energy to make out. Gimli looked frightened, and kept glancing toward the road. He realized dimly that it was him that the dwarf was frightened for, or maybe that his weakness was going to get the both of them killed. Wearily, he steadied himself against Gimli until he got his legs underneath him, ashamed to let more than one gasp of pain escape his lips. It was so different than with Aragorn. The man was his brother, and they'd seen each others' weaknesses many times. With the dwarf, he was a prince. A few more steps and they were across. The ledge leading to the falls was mercifully low hanging.

Gimli climbed up to take a look, and then returned to help steady him, worry on his face warring with triumph over being correct. He tried to lock the pain of the climb away, reminding himself he could rest in just a few more steps. He turned suddenly at a movement on his left and saw the first company of orcs appearing on the road. He quickly hastened behind the fall, Gimli close behind him. He could see very little behind the falls at first, but two steps more and he found just enough room for himself to fit. Had the situation not been so dire, he would have laughed that the dwarf was standing under the full soaking power of the small fall, but as it was he shivered from the cold spray, his wet leggings and right sleeve cold against his skin. The floor called to him, and he sank down gratefully, crossing his legs to keep them away from the water. He just needed to rest, just for a little while. He listened carefully, but even _his_ ears could hear nothing over the low running and splattering of the water, nor the roaring in his ears. Had they been seen? He cringed. Perhaps he should have made sure of that before he so foolishly gave into weakness. He leaned his head back against the rock in self-reproach.

The dwarf waited impatiently for several minutes until he finally stepped out, then swiftly back in again. "They're still passing on the road." With the difference in height, Legolas could barely hear him, but the dwarf's ax was already out of his belt at the ready. Legolas put a hand to his knife, but doubted he'd even make it to his feet without Gimli's help. The part of the fall in front of him was smooth and almost translucent; through it, Legolas realized he could just make out the last of the shadowy forms marching away from them on the road. At last he allowed himself to relax, but then he saw them, crawling down the embankment. He motioned to Gimli to stay under the falls. And they waited.

They descended one after another, a small rear guard, searching for any trace of them, so low to the ground it almost seemed they crawled. Legolas' breath hitched as two of them came very close to the falls. If they looked carefully, he and Gimli would be seen, and that would be the end of it. His hand tightened on the damp hilt of his knife, prepared to take at least one of them with him. Slowly the orcs moved away, sniffing and kicking at the dirt, as they began tracking footprints round and around the place where their fire had been buried. They could easily find the dwarf's boot prints, and Legolas' gait had not taken care. Alarm was the only thing keeping Legolas from succumbing to the darkness threatening to overtake his vision.

The orcs tracked the footsteps out several paces in the direction the Company had gone, before returning again to where the fire had been buried. For whatever reason, for now they had dismissed the tracks that led to the stream. An orc horn cut through the still night, and then there was silence. Gimli's arm jostled him and he sucked in a gasp at the pain it caused. The dwarf's eyes were apologetic, but he motioned beyond them with his head. His very expression said, "Well? What's happening?!" Good. At least the dwarf was smarter than to attempt speaking. Legolas shook his head and put a shaky finger to his lips. Gimli would have to trust him, and the wait would be a long time for a dwarf to trust an elf.

Though he hadn't been certain he would remain conscious long enough to see what happened, about fifteen minutes later a large party of orcs came back down the road and began pouring over the embankment. The descent went on and on, their black shapes circling around the leader who stood watching by the stream. They were conferring together, and they were so close now. Those standing at the rear were just a few paces from the falls. Legolas tensed. Worry, at least dulled the pain, making him forget he was in no fit condition to fight.

At last he watched with both relief and dismay as the whole host followed the path taken by the rest of the Fellowship. It was perhaps fortunate that he was unable to rise, since it kept him from any actions Aragorn would categorize as stupid—like trying to buy him, Boromir, and the hobbits time to get away. Besides, any delay they caused wouldn't be enough. The main group would continue on when they saw only two remained, and he would have spent Gimli's life on nothing. Instead, he allowed his eyes to flutter closed as he tried to distract himself from the throbbing pain by focusing on his jerkin and the soaked tunic sticking to his skin beneath it.

Gimli, sensing the danger had passed, stepped out from under the falls and looked around. Then he removed his helm and shook the water from his hair.

"They have gone. Come on, laddie, let's go while we can and see if we can find a suitable place to wait for the others to come back. The water is squishing all the way to my boots."

Legolas nodded wearily, but made no move to follow.

"Up you get." The dwarf carefully reached under his left shoulder and tugged. It wasn't much leverage, but Legolas obeyed, a bit surprised at the dwarf's strength. Painstakingly, he got to his feet. Gimli remained beside him in silence as he rode out the waves of pain caused by standing. Legolas clenched his mouth firmly shut and clung to the shreds of his dignity. He was determined that whatever remained in his stomach would not reappear at the dwarf's feet.

Gimli seemed energized by the long wait under the falls, but Legolas felt like they had leeched the last of his strength. Each movement was stiff and required so much thought, and the cold spray and dunking from his fall in the stream had made his body even more numb and sluggish. His very bones ached, yet he knew they could risk no fire tonight. Orcs were notorious about doubling back, and they were not out of danger. And besides, the blow to his pride would be great. An elf should have no need of the warmth of a fire. He paid no attention to their direction beyond his own footsteps. He couldn't let himself think of where the orcs might be going, only of one step, and then another, of the feeling of his muscles as his weight transferred from foot to foot, and of the agony building again now that immediate danger was passed.

His lungs were beginning to burn from exertion when Gimli stopped suddenly.

"Perhaps I should scout ahead." There was something in his voice—not malice. False cheer, perhaps. Legolas was too weary to decide. He shook his head a few times—a futile attempt at stopping the ringing in his ears.

"Rest here, and I'll return shortly." Before Legolas' sluggish mind could come up with a retort, the dwarf was gone. He could hear the sound of Gimli's wet boots fading away from him. He continued on unsteadily to a young birch tree, his ears roaring now and a dark curtain threatening his sight. His knees threatened to buckle, but he feared if he let them there would be no getting up again. Too young to be truly awake, the tree did not speak, but its melody soothed his spirit and bolstered his strength.

Ai Elbereth this was a rotten affair. His body had well and truly betrayed him and where he might have found optimism, he could only feel a calm resignation. For the first time since the arrow had pierced him, he was no longer certain of the outcome. He didn't fear death, but if death was to be the outcome, he'd rather not die a slow useless death in the wilderness. Better than in Moria, though, his mind supplied morbidly. He was so lost somewhere between thoughts and dreams that he didn't hear Gimli's return.

He started a bit to find the dwarf peering down at him with concern. When had he sat down? Or closed his eyes? "Just needed to rest…for a moment," he finally supplied in defense.

Gimli gave him that look again and then a canteen appeared in front of his face. "Drink."

"…found a shelter…just a bit further." Legolas blinked slowly. Why was it so difficult to focus? He shook himself. He could do this. It was as if he mind was slogging through the mud. How long had Gimli been gone?

"Come on elf. Get on your feet or I shall tell every soul from Gondor to Erebor how Gimli the Brave had to carry the Son of Thranduil, Prince of Mirkwood to safety." That snapped him to attention, though he hadn't the energy for indignation, nor for laughter. Nor to point out that the dwarf had left out half of Arda. He found he cared very little about the threat, and for the first time, perhaps, since they set out, he trusted the dwarf completely—with his health and with his pride. Circumstances were beyond pride now, anyway.

The short rest, he was pleased to find, had done him good, and with a few tugs from Gimli and the aid of the tree, he was at last able to get back on his feet. Getting to the aforementioned sheltered, however, was still no easy feat. Gimli hovered at his right, never straying too far ahead or behind, always there when he stumbled over the uneven terrain. His wound burned a fiery trail outward to his ribs and down into his left hip, stabbing in time with his racing heart. He felt cold. So very cold. He couldn't recall a time he'd ever been so effected. His whole body trembled, and he ground his teeth together to keep them from chattering.

He, of all the fellowship, would be the most qualified for a woodland battle, yet instead of helping them he was miles away, being helped to shelter, his teeth chattering from a little wet. He kept losing track of time and would become aware of Gimli bearing most of his weight while his legs moved mechanically. He would remember himself, and then his mind would grow dim again.

At last they made it. The shelter felt too much like a trap for Legolas' liking. Too exposed, and yet too enclosed, yawning dark and deep between two great rocks that grew straight from the hillside. Loss of the freedom of the trees made him anxious. Not another cave. He couldn't go in one again. Not now. He must have said so aloud, for Gimli hastened to assure him it was merely a cleft in the mountain and not a true cave.

"I'll bet you can still see the stars!"

The floor was uneven, and in the darkness, Legolas almost tripped over Gimli's pack. His wound flared viciously as he regained his balance. When had the dwarf put it there, and how had he not noticed that he hadn't been carrying it?

"Best let me look at you."

He made no protest as the dwarf helped ease him down to the cool dirt. Gimli was fumbling with Aragorn's pouch, but at last he sighed and cast it away. "It is useless in this dark. My eyes might be keen at night, but without moonlight at least, I can't see a thing."

Legolas closed his eyes. He knew very well what Aragorn kept in his pouch. The man was a creature of habit, and those habits were elvish in nature. Medicines. Sachets of herbs for pastes. Needle and thread. Scant bandages. Spirits. Doing his best to hold in a moan, he stretched until his fingers closed over the strap and pulled the pouch close.

"I'll change the bandages, at least." He opened the flap and rummaged around, sniffing herbs. He could almost hear Gimli shrug.

"I expect you know more about it than I do, anyway."

Peeling off his jerkin and the wet shirt beneath proved more exhausting than he had anticipated. Legolas was fond of this jerkin. His mother had designed it and though it had been a frequent casualty of his many skirmishes, he'd had it remade countless times over the long years. As he tried to catch his breath after the pain and exertion of even those small movements, he could hear Gimli spreading them out to dry and taking off his own soaked gear. He wondered distantly if the dwarf was a cold as he was. His fingers fumbling numbly at the soaked bandages. At this point he wasn't sure how much was from the water and how much was blood, though from his wooziness he suspected it was mostly the latter.

He felt restless underneath the stone, so soon after Moria. The stones in Hollin had disturbed him greatly, but the stones of Moria and the doom they spoke of had stayed with him. That there had been a Balrog of Morgoth, of all creatures, to confront them. He shuddered, and this time not from the chill. Its touch had been evil, and truly terrifying in a way that an orc was not. Worse, even, than the evil that seemed to emanate from Dol Guldur. It had cut him to his very soul, almost a wound itself. Each time he surrendered to rest, the flames would again appear, and the creature would emerge to haunt him. These stones, at least, were blessedly silent.

* * *

"How's the bleeding?"

Whether he had dozed or stared into space, he wasn't sure, but the question caught him off guard and for a moment he forgot to answer.

"Legolas?"

"Oh." He felt absently at the sticky wetness at his left side. He'd forgotten he was supposed to be tending to it. "Better than it could be, I suppose." He kept his voice light, but suspected Gimli was not so easily fooled.

The silence was heavy between them as Legolas dwelt on the wound. Perhaps if he hadn't been so distracted by the Balrog—and by Mithrandir's fall—he could have prevented all of this misfortune. He couldn't help but feel that, if not for him, they would all be safely ensconced in a _galadhrim talan_.

"What's it like," Gimli asked rather abruptly, and Legolas remembered again that he had been working at replacing his bandages.

"What's _what_ like?" He rummaged in the pouch until his hand closed around the roll of fresh linen.

"The Golden Wood."

Legolas saw the distraction for what it was, but cast himself in memory, his breath coming more easily now that he was reclined and still. If he could just focus.

" _That is the fairest of all the dwellings of my people. There are no trees like the trees of that land."_

The dwarf snorted a bit. "Trees. Of course it's about the trees, but I suppose you think we dwarves bewildering for our love of mountain rock."

"Aye." A wave of weariness washed over him again and he fought to stay awake. His fingers resumed their absent probing as if he had never stopped, though his mind was a bit lost in tales his own mother had told to him. Perhaps he would see her again soon. " _In the autumn their leaves fall not, but turn to gold. Not till the spring comes and the new green opens do they fall, and then the boughs are laden with yellow flowers; and the floor of the wood is golden, and golden is the roof, and its pillars are of silver, for the bark of the trees is smooth and grey. My heart would be glad if I were beneath the eaves of the wood, and it were springtime!"_

He could _hear_ Gimli's frown. Perhaps his tone had been a bit too wistful. "I'd be glad to be there at all, if I were you."

He'd almost managed to unpeel the last of the drenched bandages when he paused, his heart pounding suddenly in alarm—not at something he had found, but at what he had not found. The black shaft was gone. It must have separated from the arrowhead. He leaned his head against the rock behind him in defeat, barely hearing Gimli's next words.

He knew a fever was building, there could be no other explanation for the violence of his chills, and the loss of the shaft had likely determined his fate. Estel was talented, but he'd seen very few survive when an arrowhead could not be found. And their deaths had not been something he'd wish on an enemy. He'd recognized the correct herbs in the pouch. Ones that would ease his passing, but he felt a responsibility to the dwarf. Gimli would go out alone and fight any orcs that crossed their path. He would lay down his life defending both an elf and his honor, when, as far as Legolas was concerned, his life was forfeit anyway—better to spend it in Gimli's defense this night than to die slowly over the next few days. The orcs would come before morning, he was certain of it.

He remembered again that he was supposed to be speaking of Lothlórien, but Gimli seemed not to have minded the long pause. "They will cross the Nimrodel and into that realm. _I_ would _sing you a song of the maiden Nimrodel, who bore the same name as the stream_ , but I fear it is beyond my skill this moment." He felt a bit bewildered to be admitting this to a dwarf, but supposed his lengthy pauses had already made it obvious.

"I hope I will be able to see it," came the charitable reply. "Do elves still dwell in this Golden Wood?"

Legolas felt it best left unsaid that if he didn't live to vouch for him, Gimli would never set eyes on that realm. "Its people are called _the Galadhrim, the Tree-people. Deep in their forest the trees are very great,_ but _i_ _t is long since any of my own folk journeyed_ there _,' said Legolas, "but we hear that Lórien is not yet deserted, for there is a secret power_ there _that holds evil from the land. Its folk are seldom seen, and maybe they dwell deep in the woods and far from the northern border."_

"It's not so far from Southern Mirkwood. In all your long years _you've_ never traveled there?"

"Eryn Galen." The correction slipped off his tongue before he could stop it, and bitterness crept into his voice. "The reason you call it Mirkwood is the very reason I've not journeyed to Lothlórien."

"But you visited Rivendell?" Gimli seemed perplexed.

"Aye, but even Erebor is closer than Lórien—and a Necromancer's lair does not separate Eryn Galen from those places as it separates our Southern forest from the Golden Wood. Lothlórien is a haven, but the way from my home to there is perilous. Aragorn has traveled there, though, many years ago…"

* * *

Please consider leaving a review! I'd love to hear from each one of my readers and to know your thoughts! Are you on the edge of your seat? Are you bored? Do you want me to kill off Legolas? (I kid….maybe.) I rewrote this chapter four times and I'm still not sure I got it quite how I wanted. Shoot me a message if you know of any beta readers you'd recommend!


	7. Chapter Seven

A/N: I'm so sorry for the long delay getting this chapter up, as an apology—or maybe because I revised it four times—it's the longest one yet! Though I've made every effort to follow the book as closely as possible, the Fellowship's circumstances are very different from canon as they enter Lothlórien. Some of the original dialogue is said by different people, and the elven response to their arrival is changed in various ways by the events in my story.

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Chapter Seven:

Pippin's knees quaked in terror as he stumbled backward, running aimlessly in the opposite direction of the orcs rushing toward them. He tried his hardest to distract himself from the danger, but now it was unavoidable. He would have to face it. True, he'd faced orcs in Moria, but there they'd had Gandalf. There he'd still thought they were all invincible.

Even though Boromir and Strider stood between them and clearly meant to defend them, Pippin wasn't stupid. Eventually the orcs would slip past, he could see their shadows swarming all around. He could hear blades clashing and grunts and cries of battle.

Merry unsheathed his sword, and after a few moments, Pippin realized he should do the same.

Boromir glanced back at Merry, and Pippin was taken aback to see the anger in his face. He'd always been so lighthearted with them. The man's voice was hoarse and breathless. "Don't fight! You can't win. You cannot help. Run!"

There was no reply from Merry, but at last Pippin found his voice. "You cannot mean to stand alone!"

Who was he kidding? His sword was mere knife to anyone bigger than a hobbit, and it felt strange and unwieldy in his hands. Still, abandoning one's defenders wasn't the Took way.

The tall grasses around them were quickly becoming trampled. Aragorn and Boromir's attention was almost completely taken with repelling the hoard of orcs that threatened to overwhelm them at any moment. They had slowed, no longer able to break free so easily. Pippin glanced behind him, and he felt a glimmer of his usual optimism returning.

"Merry—the trees! I think we've made it!"

Frodo and Sam were at his right, Sting's soft blue glow giving him a good glimpse at Frodo's face. "Please hide!" Merry pleaded to their cousin. The grasses were falling away, but if they crawled, there was a good chance they could conceal themselves until it was safe, as they had done before.

"Not if you don't!" Pippin rolled his eyes. Typical Frodo, loyal and far too humble to realize his own importance, of course he and Merry couldn't hide. It was a thing of honor—and Frodo was the reason they were all here.

A shadow loomed over him suddenly and Pippin gulped. An orc had slipped around Boromir and had almost walked right over them in the grass. "Pay attention, Pip," he admonished himself. A mighty whoosh sounded, and he brought up his sword. He was shocked when his parry wasn't instantly knocked aside. He'd learned very quickly in Moria that locking swords with an orc was futile. His chance lay in avoidance and careful jabs. A grunt sounded behind him, and he finally realized that Merry had taken the opening to stab the beast. It slumped forward, its crude sword scraping limply off of Pippin's and almost crushing Merry as he struggled to free his sword. Pippin rushed forward to brace the falling beast with his shoulder, grunting and straining with his legs so that Merry could get free.

"Just leave it!" He ground out.

"I…need…it!" And then it was loose and Merry was wheeling backwards. Pip dove away, avoiding the crushing deadweight by inches. With the immediate danger passed, he found himself gagging at the stench. Orcs truly were foul in every sense.

He wasn't sure whether to thank, praise, or scold Merry, but his cousin just gave him a knowing nod, breathing heavily, before jerking back upright as another threat loomed. He leapt away just in time and the stupid beast lost sight of him in the grass.

"This is useless, Pip. We're no help against these."

But not as useless as the men seemed to think, remained unsaid.

"Do you want to do something useful, Merry?" He had to shout to be heard.

Frodo looked over at him sharply. Pippin knew his cheerful question had roused thoughts of their spying and scheming with Fredegar-cunning that had kept Frodo from leaving without them at the beginning of this whole mess. His gaze shifted to Sam and an unspoken decision seemed to pass between himself, the gardener, and Merry. The stocky hobbit squared his jaw and gave a small nod, but there was worry and sorrow in his eyes. Poor Sam...pessimism was a heavy load to bear.

"Something foolish, you mean?" Merry returned with a wicked grin, cutting Pip's musing short.

"Very foolish." The cheer was a bit false.

"We can't win. Not here, but we're not going to stand here and wait for them to cut us down." Merry always had been able to read his mind, even if he was older and usually several steps ahead. Where Pippin wanted mischief and fun, Merry knew the best way to achieve both the latter and the former.

"Quite right."

The swarm was going to encircle them any moment, and without a distraction Pippin didn't see how the men would hold them off any longer. It had to be now. "Who knows?" He shrugged merrily, before adding cheekily, "Maybe we'll live!" At least, he hoped they would. He'd like to be Thain someday, and he had some legendary pranks he'd like to live to be known for.

Ducking underneath and breaking through at almost the last moment, he heard Merry shout from beside him, "Hey! You great black hulk! Over here!" Once they'd created more distance between them, they began to shout. They jumped up and down a bit to make sure they'd been spotted and clashed swords with each other to make sure they were heard. It was easily the most reckless thing he'd ever done, and that included letting Merry talk him into using the tunnel gate in the Hedge to venture into the Old Forest. Still, he supposed that had turned out alright…eventually. An orc horn sounded right behind them.

"Merry? Pippin?!" Boromir sounded frantic and sad—and very, very angry. He found himself a bit perplexed at all the fuss, and Frodo's anguished wail, even, stirred little guilt. They were doing this for him, after all. Not for the Ring—for Frodo. Sam would know what to do. He'd never shied away from it. Besides, they'd die for sure if they stayed, and it seemed silly to him that they would be expected to abandon the others to save their own skins.

The host following them was immense and far faster than they'd anticipated, and for a moment, Pippin's heart pounded with dread, but Merry tugged at his arm. "Come on, you great statue."

"Merry—I think we might have gotten in over our head."

"They can't see us behind those great trees. They won't know we're back there unless they watched us go there." Merry seemed to sense he had unfrozen, and with a burst of speed, they made a mad dash toward the tree line. Such speed definitely would have ensured the top prize at the Midsummer Fair on the White Downs. Pippin slammed the door on his distracting musings. He was sure he was going madder than Bilbo. The orcs seemed so very close, now. One swipe and they'd be well and truly caught.

They dove for the nearest tree, skidding into it with a jarring thud before dashing to the next nearest tree without pausing. Pippin panted, trying to catch his breath, ready to leap away again. Peering carefully around the great gray trunk, he saw, to his surprise, that the orcs had halted in confusion. They couldn't find them! And there were so many of them—more than he'd expected. He felt both alarm and satisfaction that half of the orcs had pursued them. Aragorn and Boromir surely had a better chance now.

This could actually work! He found himself grinning stupidly in the darkness before frowning in dismay. How quickly the orcs had given up the search! They couldn't let them return to the others, not if they were to maintain any hope of surviving. The fear that had gripped him before had faded now that their odds were improved.

He thought he heard Aragorn shouting something, but the man's words were drowned out by the fight, and his footsteps, and his breath in his ears. His stomach clenched in worry, and he jumped when Merry laid a hand on his shoulder.

"We can't change what's happening back there, Pip."

He nodded and straightened up. "Well then, let's lead them on a merry chase. Perhaps we'll meet some friendly elves who will help us out a bit."

Merry's eyes danced in agreement, and he took a deep breath before shouting, "Hey you ugly idiots! Over here! Can't catch us!" Pippin moved in step with his cousin as he darted behind one tree, then another. The orcs roared when they spotted their quarry. It was in that moment that Pippin decided that orcs might just be the stupidest creatures he'd ever seen. Dangerous, but stupid.

"It's working, Merry!"

"A little too well," his cousin puffed back.

It wasn't all fun and games and there were several close calls, especially at the beginning while the trees were sparse. They had to maintain their head start, and for once Pippin desperately wished for a low hanging branch so they could climb to safety, but he couldn't even make out any branches, so great and tall were the trunks of the strange silver trees. Legolas, he suspected, would have had a lot to say about them if he'd been able to come with them. Leaving him behind left his stomach sour, and gave him a feeling of guilt and doom he couldn't quite shake. Worse, the orcs were slowly regaining their lead.

Pippin's ankle twinged as he stepped on a tree root, but they kept on, both frantically running through the brush, crushing leaves underneath their feet and stumbling over many an unexpected hole. They ran until their feet throbbed and stitches stabbed in their sides, still making great effort to be as noisy as possible as they drew the orcs more deeply into the forest, creating just enough distance to keep the orcs on the hunt and themselves out of reach.

 _They had gone little more than a mile into the forest when they came upon another stream flowing down swiftly from the tree-clad slopes that climbed back westward towards the mountains._ The orcs all but drowned out the sound of _it splashing over a fall away among the shadows on their right. Its dark hurrying waters ran across the path before them, and joined the Silverlode in a swirl of dim pools among the roots of the trees._

Despite the danger behind him, Pippin felt a bit of trepidation at the water and slowed down instinctively. Any hobbit would, he reasoned—except Brandybucks, apparently, he revised, as Merry, dashed _forward and_ without hesitation _climbed down the deep-cloven bank and stepped into the steam._ He wasn't even sure they were going the right away, and it seemed hasty to cross a stream without need.

 _"Follow me!"_ Merry _cried_ , turning and calling to him from the mid-way point, _"The water is not deep_ and it's better than being a tasty orc-treat!" Taking a fortifying breath, Pippin clambered down behind his cousin. _It was cold but its touch was clean, and as he went on and it mounted to his knees, he felt that the stain of travel and all weariness was washed from his limbs. For a moment,_ he wished he could just stand _and let the water flow over his tired feet_ , but the orcs were too close. He came out on the opposite bank energized and ready to start the chase once again.

He _fancied that he could hear a voice singing, mingled with the sound of the water,_ but was sure it must have been a figment of his imagination, for the roar of the orcs' pursuit was loud in his ears. He dashed after Merry as he _went into the shadows of the deeper woods, westward along the mountain-stream away from Silverlode._

They stopped to catch their breath in _a cluster of trees, some of which overhung the stream. Their great grey trunks were of mighty girth, but their height could not be guessed._

Just as Pippin was beginning to wonder if they'd put more distance between themselves and the orcs than they'd realized, they appeared suddenly in the darkness on the far side of the stream. To his surprise, they paused, grimacing with distaste. Pip held his breath. Would they really just let them go? He knew they could see him. Though only a sliver, the moon shone brightly now overhead. The pause broke in an instant and the orcs came hurtling across, though they hissed and stepped quickly, as though the pleasant water burned their feet.

"Run!" Pippin shoved Merry forward, ready to set off again, when out of the trees came a sudden glint of gold in the starlight. A gray-cloaked elf dropped out of the trees and directly in front of them, bow in hand. Merry stopped so suddenly that Pippin plowed right into him, almost sending them both to the ground.

Pippin was paralyzed with shock, though he was gratified to see that Merry was similarly slack jawed. It took him a moment to realize the elf was speaking.

"Up! Up! Into the treetops!" Just as he was about to retort that they were no elves to be swinging branch by branch up into the treetops, he perceived that, a few paces beyond, o _ut of the shadows a ladder was_ being _let down: it was made of rope, silver-grey and glimmering in the dark, and though it looked slender it proved strong enough to bear many men._ Arrows were already reigning down at the orcs, flowing in little breezes much closer to Pippin's face than he found to be entirely comforting. The two hobbits did not hesitate as they might have done if not so pressed, instead sheathing their swords and dashing for the ladder, beginning a hasty scramble to an unknown height above. Pippin resolutely refused to look down.

The arrows continued to fly relentlessly downward as they climbed, and Pippin felt the ladder jostle behind him. "Faster!" He wasn't sure if the elf intended to come up behind him, or if he was only trying to keep the orcs from going up. Only a moment had passed, but it felt like an hour. His stomach rumbled unhappily at the reminder, but he shushed it and did as he was told. There were more dire things at hand than another missed meal.

The climb seemed to go on forever, and the higher he got, the harder he found it not to cling to the ladder in sheer terror. Or to vomit. Movement on either side of him caught his eye and he paused in awe as two more elves slid by rope from the treetops. They were fierce and graceful, and so very unlike hobbits. He thought perhaps this was how Legolas had fought for centuries in his forest.

The ladder jerked a bit as the elf below him leapt back down, and Pippin came to himself again, realizing he'd stopped and that Merry was far above him. He still dared not look down, but he could hear the sound of blades clashing directly below him as the warriors engaged in hand to hand combat. When at last the ladder passed through a wooden platform, Merry was there waiting for him. _T_ _he branches of the great tree grew out nearly straight from the trunk_ , and here, which must be _near the top, the main stem divided into a crown of many boughs, and_ here _had been built a flet._

It made Pippin nervous. He felt as if he would fall through the floor—or dislodge the platform from the tree if he made the slightest movement, and he didn't get to his feet. _It had no walls, not even a rail; only on one side was there a light plaited screen, which could be moved and fixed in different places according to the wind._

Eventually, curiosity overtook him, and he told himself nothing elven made could possibly as flimsy as all that. Compromising, he and Merry scooted on their bellies to a far edge and peered down. To his disappointment, he couldn't see much of what was happening beneath him, and the dizzying height didn't encourage him to lean out any farther. Instead, he stared down in the darkness and tried not to think about everything that had happened.

"Pip!" The younger hobbit's head jerked upright. Merry's voice had come from farther away than he'd expected. He looked over his shoulder, surprised to see that his cousin had returned to the hole they'd climbed through and was peering down.

"They're trying to climb the tree!"

Indeed, several orcs had skirted the main skirmish and were aiming for the ladder. Another two had leapt up onto a low hanging branch. That the elves hadn't yet noticed told him more than he'd like to know about the precariousness of the situation.

Merry seemed to read his mind and pointed them out, "There are only three."

The cloaked elves were in constant motion, around them the shadowed corpses of the orcs had begun to accumulate like boulders encircling them. Between arrow and blade, they'd acquitted themselves admirably. Indeed, the arrows alone must have dispatched over half of the force that had followed them. He watched with relief as one elf finally leapt up and dispatched the orcs swinging from the lowest branch, while another broke away to deal with the ones climbing the ladder. Their movements were so swift and synchronized that it looked like they'd rehearsed them for centuries. Perhaps they had, but it was quickly becoming obvious they weren't moving with the same lightning speed they had at first.

"Pip." Merry said urgently, "I think we ought to raise the ladder. We're making access to the tree a bit too easy, and I don't think they'll be able to keep breaking away to take care of it."

"We'll trap them down there!"

But Merry was already pulling the rope ladder up hand over hand. "No we won't! We've seen Legolas climb a tree. They'll manage just fine. Now help me!"

Pippin grasped the edge of a rung where it met the side of the ladder and heaved. It was heavier than he expected for a thing so delicate looking. The orcs farthest from the fight noticed the shortening immediately and made a sudden lunge, taking Pippin by surprise. He found himself jerked straight out of the hole in the platform as the weight of the ascending orcs overpowered him and Merry, causing the slack in the ladder to vanish instantly.

Pippin's hands tightened around the tope, and he held on for dear life as he hurtled upside down. The seconds of freefall ended almost as abruptly as they'd begun as the ladder snapped taut, almost wrenching from his hands as his body righted itself. His arms shook and burned from holding his weight, and his hands slid down to the next rung despite the strong hold he had on it. His hands stung as the skin was peeled off, but in his fear, he felt little pain. His feet flailed madly until they found a rung. Once he realized the danger of falling had passed, he clung trembling to the ladder, his breaths coming in shaky bursts and his heart in his throat.

"Pippin?!" Merry was calling in from above panic, but Pippin couldn't seem to get his mouth to form words. Relief rushed through him that his cousin wasn't lying on the ground below. Collecting his wits, he looked up to find he'd only fallen six feet or so.

He'd yet to find his voice to reassure his cousin when there was a snarl of glee from below. He forced himself to look down and saw an orc climbing quickly toward him, and another below it-he was the prey. Their yellow eyes pierced him and their teeth were bared in a menacing growl. Pippin's mind raced with panic. What to do? He felt dreadfully off balance on the swaying ladder, and the fear of heights was difficult to overcome. All his mind and body seemed willing to allow was for him to cling to the ladder and breathe.

The jostling below him grew more forceful, and he peeled his eyes open once more to see an elf casting the orcs from the ladder. He hadn't even thought they'd noticed! For a moment, his muddled mind thought Legolas had come, and the illusion was so strong he was almost able to overcome the shock of his close brush with death. Happiness began to overcome the haze of panic, but the elf just looked at him and shouted something in elvish before leaping back down and rejoining the fray. Disappointment weighed on him. Pippin wasn't sure what had been yelled at him, but he didn't need to be told twice to get back up to safety.

"You've done it once already, Peregrin Took. Now do it again." His hands burned and protested at the climb, too slick and stiff to get a grip that felt entirely secure.

Upon reaching the platform, he all but collapsed against Merry, who cleared his throat suspiciously and gave him a tight hug.

A sharper and louder ring of steel drew their attention below them once more. Pippin blinked in surprise and promptly forgot his new fear of heights as he looked down. A smile split his face.

"It's Strider!" Merry pointed with excitement.

"And Boromir!"

"They've made it!"

Pippin frowned. Where were Frodo and Sam? If they were hiding, the two hobbits could not be seen, and it was impossible in the darkness and constant motion even to tell how the two men fared.

The joy of seeing their companions alive had rekindled Pippin's optimism, and he thought the men would make short work of the remaining orcs, but it seemed even more had followed. What ensued was a pitched battle, just as frightening as the one of the plain—no longer due to the numbers of orcs, but to the weariness of those fighting. Pippin loathed his helplessness, but he couldn't look away. Five against what—he counted as best he could-twenty or thirty weren't great odds for tiring defenders, but they were better than they had been. He was a bit awed that they'd felled so many, and that they still seemed to be holding their own.

As suddenly as if lightning had struck, both parties of orcs seemed to realize that their quarry had been joined by a set of formidable warriors. A cry went up, and they turned tail and fled, apparently no longer willing to engage in a losing battle. Pippin almost let out a cheer, but kept his mouth shut for fear they would change their minds. It was over at last.

Swords and knives were wiped down and sheathed below. Aragorn was inquiring frantically in elvish. With the orcs gone, the sound carried quite well, thought to his frustration, Pippin couldn't understand a word exchanged. An answer came, and then one of the elves pointed straight at them.

With the gesture, Pippin understood. "Hi, Strider!"

The Ranger looked up at Pippin and waved. Even at this distance, he could see the relief on the man's face as it was split by an unguarded smile.

"Are Frodo and Sam with you?" Merry called down.

Aragorn shook his head and must have heard the fear in Merry's voice, because the man hastened to call up, "They hid, we think, and then we didn't see them again."

Pippin refused to give thought to the worry unfurling in his gut. They were safe. They would return for Legolas and Gimli, and if Sam and Frodo evaded Black Riders in the Shire before they even knew what they were, they could certainly evade orcs.

Had they been caught with Legolas or on the open road, results would have been far worse. The three elven warriors aided them considerably, especially with their archery, but despite fortune having favored them, Pippin perceived as Boromir came nearer up the ladder, that he was in a foul mood.

The group was climbing in silence, men first, and then the elves. Boromir wasn't even fully on the flet before his poorly contained fury burst out of him. He looked so angry that Pippin almost forgot to be scared of the wall-less platform and scrambled backward as the Gondorian swiftly stepped toward them.

"What were you thinking?!"

The man seemed unfazed by the height of the flet and hardly paused in his tirade. "Your actions would have been foolish even for a warrior of Gondor—which you are not." There was anger there, yes, but the worry beneath it drove away any fear of the man. Pippin joined Merry in giving him a most deserved glare.

The younger hobbit just shrugged and offered icily, with a hint of false cheer. "Maybe we were thinking we didn't want to die a useless death in a field, or run away like cowards."

Boromir opened his mouth to retort, then promptly shut it again. Pippin noted with some satisfaction that a flicker of chagrin had crossed the man's face. Strider's head of dark hair appeared through the hole in the flet, followed quickly by the rest of his body. Aragorn wore a bemused expression as he stepped onto the platform beside the man, who stalked a few paces over from them and sat down heavily, his head in his hands.

When they were all up safely in the flet, the elf who had spoken to them earlier lit a small lamp and gave a stiff little bow. They gathered around it and sat down wearily as he joined them, addressing them formally despite his obvious exhaustion.

" _Welcome,_ Aragorn, son of Arathorn—you and your companions. _" the Elf then said in the Common Language, speaking slowly._ He seemed to realize how halting was his speech, for he went on to explain apologetically. _"We seldom use any tongue but our own; for we dwell now in the heart of the forest, and do not willingly have dealings with any other folk. Even our own kindred in the North are sundered from us. But there are some of us still who go abroad for the gathering of news and the watching of our enemies, and they speak the languages of other lands. I am one. Haldir is my name. My brothers, Rúmil and Orophin, speak little of your tongue."_ He gestured in turn to each of the other two elves.

" _We have heard rumours of your coming, for the messengers of Elrond passed by Lórien on their way home up the Dimrill Stair. We have not heard of—hobbits, of halflings, for many a long year, and did not know that any yet dwelt in Middle-earth. You do not look evil!_ And since your companions slew orcs alongside us _, we are willing to befriend you, as Elrond asked; though it is not our custom to lead strangers through our land. But you_ are weary and must rest before we decide on a way forward _."_

Boromir seemed tense and distrusting, but held his tongue despite his scowl. Or perhaps the needle and thread a silent elf had handed Aragorn were the cause of his expression. For the first time, Pippin took note of the hastily wrapped gash in the man's right arm.

A hand touched his shoulder, and Pippin flinched before looking up to see one of Haldir's brothers—Rúmil, he thought-motion to his hand. He'd almost forgotten. He held his palms up for the elf to inspect. Beside him, Merry let out a soft gasp.

"Pippin…"

In the lamplight, he could see now that his palm were flayed and missing the top layer of skin. He winced. Climbing back down was going to be a chore. Aragorn looked up at them quizzically from his stitching, but Pippin could only shrug. Injured hands were a small price to pay for being up in the flet instead of broken on the ground.

He let the elf rub an ointment onto the raw skin and hardly paid attention as they were gently wrapped. The whispered conversation between Boromir and Aragorn was increasing in volume until it became so heated neither bothered to conceal it. Why was the man so ill-tempered lately?

 _"What other fairer way would you desire?"_ Strider was hissing incredulously.

 _"A plain road, though it led through a hedge of swords," Boromir_ shot back. _"By strange paths has this Company been led, and so far to evil fortune. Against my will we passed under the shades of Moria, to our loss. And now we must enter the Golden Wood, you say. But of that perilous land we have heard in Gondor, and it is said that few come out who once go in: and of that few none have escaped unscathed."_

Pippin shifted his eyes first to Rúmil, and then over to Haldir. Yes, definitely offended. "Wonderful," he muttered to himself. And Gandalf accused _him_ of being juvenile. His eyes pricked at the thought of the wizard, and he quickly re-immersed himself in the men's argument.

_"Say not unscathed, but if you say unchanged, then maybe you will speak the truth," said Aragorn. "But lore wanes in Gondor, Boromir, if in the city of those who once were wise they now speak evil of Lothlórien."_

Boromir fell silent at that final jab, seeming to accept their road now that he'd said his piece. Aragorn was silent for several moments, gazing up at the night sky before he at last said softly, lost in thought, _"Glad I am to hear again the wind in the trees_!"

"I do not know what your business is in our forest," Haldir said quietly, apparently choosing to ignore Boromir's words, "but we will not allow the orcs to go unchecked." The elf who had fetched the needle and thread for Aragorn stood. " _We are still little more than five leagues from the Gates,_ but _Orophin will go in haste back to our dwellings to warn our people. None of the Orcs will_ remain uncaught to return to either Moria or Mordor. _And there will be many Elves hidden on the northern border before another night falls."_

Orophin, who truly did resemble his brothers, gave a nod of goodbye and leapt out into the night. Pippin could see him no longer, but the trees swayed gently as he leapt from branch to branch.

* * *

In the next chapter we'll either check in with Legolas and Gimli or Sam and Frodo. I keep changing my mind. Please review and let me know what you think of the story so far! It's so encouraging and motivating to know my story is being read and enjoyed!


	8. Chapter Eight

A/N: Italicized phrases are quotes direction from Tolkein.

* * *

Chapter Eight

It seemed like yesterday that Pippin and Merry had convinced him over an ale in a smoky corner of _The Green Dragon_ that Frodo was up to something. Merry had known about the Ring even before Bilbo went away. He'd also read Mr. Bilbo's book, sneaky chap. In the spring, he enlisted Sam, who had felt every bit the outsider. While he would have liked to proclaim Mr. Frodo's innocence in their suspicions of "up to something," Mr. Frodo _was_ a Baggins and Mr. Bilbo _had_ seen _something_ in him—likely that _something_ was a quality a more hobbit-like hobbit would have found odd or bewildering. So he had agreed, however reluctantly, that Mr. Frodo needed to be kept an eye on—for his own good. He and Fatty, whom Sam hoped was safely tucked away at Crickhollow, and Merry and Pippin had kept a close eye on Frodo because they were terrified he'd go away on his own like Bilbo had.

He'd had no idea- _no idea-_ of the consequences of his "spying". That a wizard had been involved should have been a clue, and, though Gandalf had let him off lightly upon discovery, said wizard's admonitions about the Ring and Sauron should have made it blatantly obvious just what he was getting into. Sam knew that if he'd wanted to avoid danger, he should have refused, but even then, he just couldn't. He suspected the Gaffer's stubbornness was partly to blame, and sometimes he wondered if Gandalf had but a spell on him. He couldn't really explain his loyalty, but Frodo Baggins was the best of hobbits, and Sam meant to see him through to the end—and hopefully back home again.

" _Don't you leave him_ ," Gildor had said. A day hadn't gone by where he'd not thought those words. He certainly couldn't leave Frodo when the Black Riders pursued them. And he couldn't leave after Weathertop, where he had at last begun to understand the forces against them. And he couldn't through Caradharas or Moria. He knew now that the _couldn't leaves_ wouldn't let up until the task was finished.

The business with the Ring mattered, of course it did, but Mr. Frodo mattered more. Leastwise to him. He knew that what was best for them all was for _It_ to be destroyed, and Sam wouldn't leave Frodo to the task alone, a task made all the harder by said hobbit's refusal to realize his importance in the grand scheme of things.

"Please hide," Merry was pleading, his voice hushed and frantic, but loud enough to carry.

"Not if you don't!"

The trees of the Golden Wood loomed to the nearby South and with every step toward them the tall grasses that hid them thinned a bit more.

An orc pressed down on them and Frodo pivoted, then jabbed at him before retreating several paces and crouching hidden in once more in the grasses. The trick was not to stick around long enough to see the orc's revenge.

Another orc rushed at the two cousins. It was all Sam could do to hold Frodo back from intervening. Sam couldn't hear the frantic conversation the two seemed to be having, but they didn't seem to notice their peril. The fabric of Frodo's coat threatened to rip from Sam's fingers as he strained toward his cousins. They watched, horrified, as the orc raised his sword and began to bring it down with such force that it would cleave the youngest hobbit in two.

They were too far away to do anything but follow the orc's sword with their eyes as it swung downward. Sam was not naïve enough to hope Pippin's parry would have any effect. Then Merry was there next to Pippin, stabbing fiercely upward.

Sam's knees nearly went weak with relief. Another orc slipped through and they scrambled backwards again, but it seemed enough to awaken Frodo from his stupor. They moved as a team, Frodo hacking at the orc's left, and Sam at its right. When it fell, they crouched back down in the grasses.

"Do you want to do something useful, Merry?!" Pippin's voice carried from over the throng. Frodo's head jerked up and locked onto Pippin's face. Sam had always known it would come to this. The two cousins avoided Frodo's piercing gaze, but looked at him. Words weren't needed—if Frodo wouldn't leave, then they would keep him safe another way.

Frodo didn't understand, but Sam did. His cousins would do anything for Frodo, with the understanding that Sam would remain by his side. And, of course, he would. He wouldn't—couldn't—leave Frodo while he still breathed. He squared his jaw and gave a Merry and Pippin a small nod.

 _You can trust us to stick to you through thick and thin—to the bitter end. And you can trust us to keep any secret of yours—closer than you keep it yourself. But you cannot trust us to let you face trouble alone, and go off without a word._ Sam willed Frodo to remember Merry's words from that evening months ago at Crickhollow.

Beside him, Frodo was pleading, "Run, please, just run." But they wouldn't be able to hear, not that it mattered.

"Who knows, maybe we'll live." Pippin's cheeky voice wafted over the din, and he turned and gave Frodo a small smile.

"No, no, no, no, no…" Frodo was whispering harshly at them, his face pale, and his voice growing louder as grief overwhelmed his caution. "No—don't do it you fools. Just run—just go!" But his words were drowned out as they sprang up, clashing their swords together and hurling insults at the orcs before turning tail and fleeing to the tree line. They made more noise than a raucous drinking party. An orc horn blew and the shadows around them thinned as orc after orc peeled away to pursue the pair dashing toward the wood. He felt bile rise in his throat and swallowed hard. Dimly he heard the horror in Boromir's voice as he called for them.

"No!" Frodo was yelling now—picking up speed as he went after them, heedless of the danger. Sam lunged at him and yanked him down, clamping a hand over his mouth. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Frodo, so sorry, but you've got to be quiet now, you hear-or they'll have done all that for nothing." He flinched as an orc fell dead on the ground next to him. Strider had only barely managed to catch it before it had reached them, and it wasn't fair to make his job harder.

The fight became even more frenzied around them as the ring of orcs drew ever tighter around their prey. Huddled in the grasses, the two hobbits were overlooked by the orcs, but Aragorn must have known they were still there.

"Run! Due South! Follow the—" his words were drowned out by the clash of swords "—cross it and keep running until a marchwarden stops you."

"And be silent for pity's sake!"

The two men were struggling to keep up the defense. It wouldn't be long now, until they lost. Sam's throat tightened with grief. "Mr. Frodo, we have to go!" Sam was frantic. He was no coward, but this was no battle for a hobbit. His duty was to Frodo. But Frodo wouldn't—or couldn't—move, so they stayed crouched down, ready to spring up at any second. Sam couldn't see much, but he thought he could hear Merry shouting a bunch of silly nonsense. Sam's face felt hot with the dizzying emotions. They were nearly surrounded. He looked in all directions, but everywhere he looked, shadows loomed. And then Mr. Frodo was tugging his arm. He'd finally unfrozen.

Sheathing their swords, they dragged themselves along the ground with their arms. Sam had no idea of their direction as they turned this way and that to avoid being trampled. He hissed in pain and bit off a yelp as a booted foot descended on his fingers, but then it was gone. Sam remained frozen a few seconds more, but the orc hadn't even noticed him. Fingers smarting, Sam started moving again. His coat sleeves would need a good patching after this, and he'd lost track of Mr. Frodo somewhere along the way. Coming to the edge of the stream, he stayed huddled in the grasses next to it and tried to catch his breath.

A hand landed on his shoulder and he jumped, his hand going to his sword, though he knew it would be too late to draw it. It was only Mr. Frodo. Sam deflated in relief.

"Sorry, Mr. Frodo," he stammered, "I'm a bit jumpy."

"No harm done." They stayed crouched together, expecting that at any moment they would be discovered. The battle continued nearby, but to his surprise, it seemed the orcs had forgotten them. He desperately wanted to see what was happening—he wasn't even sure if Aragorn or Boromir knew they had not gone far. In the darkness, all he could make out was a swath of shadows several paces away—so very close to them. He could hear grunts and cries and the frenzied clash of swords as easily as if he was in the fight himself. He was quite frightened for them. There was a sound of pain and then he thought he heard Aragorn yelling.

Suddenly, he was glad he couldn't see. He didn't want to watch them die. A sob rose in his chest, but he refused to let it escape. Frodo gave his shoulder a squeeze. There were no words.

They waited and waited until the pounding of footsteps faded and the grasses could again be heard shivering in the breeze. At last they peeked out, expecting a shadow to instantly accost them, but nothing moved. They crept out to the trampled circle of grasses, not wanting to know, but compelled to look. The orcs had left for a reason. In the dark, they searched as best they could.

Boromir's shield lay right in the center of a ring of trampled grass and dead orcs, its embellishments glinting in the moonlight. Sam stopped, dread filling him. The shield itself didn't appear to be badly damaged—but why had Boromir left it behind? They searched the grasses nearby carefully, finding many an orc corpse and a few discarded packs, but they found no trace of the men.

"He's not here—neither of them are." Sam's face burst into a smile and he let out a quiet whoop.

"I can't believe they've made it through," Frodo murmured.

"And if they've made it to the trees, surely they'll be able to hold their own now!"

"And perhaps Merry and Pippin will also." Frodo's words were quiet, but hopeful.

With a grimace, Sam picked his way back over to where the shield lay. The smell was already unbearable, and he suspected it would only worsen. It seemed wrong to leave it there. Frodo joined him and together they dragged the heavy shield a few feet away from the circle of dead orcs and piled up the packs next to it.

For several moments they said nothing. "Sam?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you…for tackling me back there."

"They'll be okay, Mr. Frodo, just you wait. I suppose we hobbits are too often underestimated—but let's not underestimate ourselves."

They walked slowly back to the water's edge. "Cross the Silverlode…" Sam muttered to himself. "I think that was what he said…and something about a marchwarden, whatever that was." He couldn't quite remember what Strider had said.

"The stream is deeper here than it was before."

Sam eyed the swift stream with some trepidation, "It looks faster, too. More river-like, if you ask me."

"I think you're right, Sam, and I'll bet it will become even deeper the farther South we delay. Perhaps we ought to cross here."

Sam tried to put on a brave face, "Aye, better now than when it's deeper than a hobbit—my old gaffer would be horrified by all our adventures, you know."

" _I'm_ horrified by all our adventures," Frodo returned wryly.

"Leave the pack with the others," Frodo urged softly, "Perhaps we can return for it when we go back for Legolas."

"Not a chance," Sam protested, "If anything else happens, we'll have no supplies."

"No pots, you mean."

"Well…" Sam hedged a bit peevishly, "I reckon you may be right, but I'd rather not part with them if it's all the same to you."

Frodo rolled his eyes, or at least Sam thought he did, it was too dark to see his face very clearly, and stepped into the stream without further comment. There was nothing for it—Sam had to follow.

The stream was icy cold and the current swifter than he expected as it pulled at his feet. By midstream, he felt some regret over his stubborn refusal to part with his pack. Its contents were surely soaked, and the weight of it threatened to pull him backward.

"Come on!" The pull of Frodo's hand—Sam didn't even remember grabbing it—propelled him forward, and after a few more steps they came out on the opposite bank safely and without incident, to Sam's eternal relief.

 _The night wind blew chill up the valley to meet them. Before them a wide grey shadow loomed, and they heard an endless rustle of leaves like poplars in the breeze._ Sam shivered in his wet clothes as he and Frodo began making their way into the forest. The grasses were much the same on this side of the Silverlode—fading away as the trees became less sparse and the forest deepened. Fire burned in Sam's shoulders from the weight of the wet pack as he trudged behind Frodo, lamenting that there would be no fire to dry off by this night. The great silver trunks grew numerous and thick, and if it weren't for the river, Sam knew they would have begun to wander aimlessly.

"There!" Frodo stopped so suddenly that Sam almost ran into him. It took a moment for Sam to realize he was pointing to a tree.

It seemed to stand out a little ways from the rest of the forest, a bent and gnarled silhouette against the strange trees of the Golden Wood. With a certainty he could not explain, Sam knew it was older than those trees. But was it friendly? He chuckled a bit at his thoughts. He'd been spending too much time amongst the elves, he supposed, for it was a very unhobbit-like thought. Frodo spotted a low hanging branch, and they scrambled up it—not far, but high enough that he hoped they wouldn't be spotted. Mr. Legolas would have been so proud.

For a long while, it was quiet. _The sickle Moon was gleaming dimly among the leaves. The wind was still. A little way off he heard a harsh laugh and the tread of many feet on the ground. There was a ring of metal. The sounds died slowly away, and seemed to go southward, on into the wood._ Sam wondered if that was the orcs that had followed Pippin and Merry into the forest, or if it was those Strider and Boromir had fought. For at least an hour, they stayed silent, their coats drying on the branches beside them. It was winter, and unlike the gold and silver trees, their shorter refuge was bare, and they felt vulnerable and exposed.

Far off sounds of battle and orc movements could be heard off and on, but eventually the forest fell silent once more. Neither hobbit felt safe enough to climb down. Frodo _drew out Sting_ from time to time. Sometimes it was dark, and sometimes _it flashed and glittered like a blue flame; and then slowly faded again and grew dull._ Sam wondered what this meant about the orcs' direction.

Sam _and Frodo_ sat quietly for a long time, _listening for any sound_ from wood or plain.

* * *

Sam woke with a start. "What is it?" His words were slurred from sleep, and the crick in his neck made it hard to look over at Frodo. Falling asleep, even unintentionally, in the tree had been a very bad idea. His head throbbed a bit, but at least it wasn't as bad as it had been after Moria, and it seemed every muscle in his body had stiffened in the short time he'd been asleep. "What time is it? How long was I out?"

Frodo smiled ruefully in the moonlight, "You weren't the only one who drifted off, Sam. Something woke me, but I'm not sure what I heard." His voice was low and hushed.

The night was even colder now, and Sam was grateful to find that his trousers were only a bit damp. He looked uneasily down into the dark forest. "I reckon we've stayed here long enough. Best be moving on now." But neither hobbit made any move to climb down. The more Sam went over events in his mind, the more he was beginning to think that in the heat of things, they'd gotten Strider's instructions wrong. He was certain that crossing the Silverlode had been a safer choice than staying on the same side as all those orcs, but he wasn't sure now that they had been supposed to cross it at all.

Frodo seemed to read his mind. "Fine adventurers we are, Sam. We've gotten lost."

The last cobwebs of sleep vanished as Sam tried to think on their location. "Well, not lost, exactly, Mr. Frodo. The Silverlode runs south, but now that I've thought about it, I think we've missed something in Mr. Strider's instructions. I think we're on the wrong side."

"Then we've reached the same conclusion, but don't forget, Sam, I was the one that led you across the river."

After they'd climbed down and gone a few paces, Sam noticed. _There were no more sounds. Even the leaves were silent._ Sam _shivered,_ and this time not from his still-damp clothes. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck and _the feeling of immediate danger grew stronger._ Sam _was almost certain that he could hear stealthy movements._ Frodo heard it too, Sam thought. His hand always strayed to _It_ when he was worried. Sam thought Sting would be more helpful.

 _"I hope that the Orcs_ want _nothing else to do with us—with the Ring, I mean."_

 _Frodo did not answer. He looked at Sting, and the blade was dull._ "Whatever is following us, I don't think it's an orc."

Sam gave a great sigh of relief.

His relief was cut short as Frodo continued, reminding him worriedly, "Sauron has other servants."

Sam tamped down his alarm, straining with his ears, but try as he might, he heard only an unnerving silence—like even the crickets were waiting for something to happen. The movements did not come again.

They continued on, which was really all they could do unless they decided to brave the river again. Lost and safe was better than found and surrounded by orcs. He struggled to remember the maps Frodo had shown him before they left. He could be mistaken, but he thought Lothlórien lay on this side of the River, though perhaps they would not be approaching it the way Strider had intended. After a while, Sam thoughts were interrupted. He could hear the sound clearly this time— _the quick patter of feet_. _He turned swiftly. There were two tiny gleams of light behind, or for a moment he thought he saw them, but at once they slipped aside and vanished._

"Do you know what it is?" asked Sam.

"Not for sure," _answered Frodo. "I thought I heard feet, and I thought I saw a light—like eyes. I have thought so often, since we first entered Moria."_

Sam shuddered at the mention of that awful place, "Well, I hope it's friendly since it's not harmed us thus far." He did not say that he thought whatever it was was more likely biding its time. If Frodo was right and it had followed them all the way through the mines, it had waited until they were alone to reveal itself. If Frodo had any clue to the creature's identity, he was keeping his own council. Sam's hand strayed to the hilt of his sword, but he forced himself to keep putting one foot in front of the other. He hoped there would be no confrontation, but he would be ready if it came to that.

It wasn't _elves,_ surely _; for the woodland folk were altogether noiseless in their movements. Then he heard faintly a sound like sniffing; and something seemed to be scabbling on the bark of_ a nearby _tree-trunk._ Sam held _his breath,_ but nothing else could be heard over his own footsteps. Whatever was going to happen would happen soon. Frodo had stopped.

 _Something was now climbing slowly_ in a tree near them _, and its breath came like a soft hissing through closed teeth. Then_ he saw it. _Two pale eyes. They stopped and gazed_ downward _unwinking._ Sam scarcely had time to cry out a warning before the eyes blinked and a pale blur shot straight at him.

Whatever the creature was, it landed right on his shoulders, knocking Sam to the ground, his pack causing his back to arch painfully around the pots he'd refused to leave behind. A rather serpentine voice said from right by his ear, "Stupid hobbitses alone in the woods."

Sam tried to shove it away, but whatever it was, the creature was wild and wiry. All of Sam's strength was focused on keeping it at arm's length. It was like bathing a cat-hissing and claws and teeth, but Sam managed to land a punch here and there.

"Get off of him!" Frodo cried, and out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see Frodo trying to find an opening to help.

Above him, he could see a pale face, and luminous blue eyes—and teeth. He gulped. Another punch caught the creature in the shoulder, but still it held on, hardly pausing in its four legged assault. "Must kill fat hobbit, precious!"

"Why me?!" Sam yelped in protest, his arms shaking with the effort of holding the creature away.

"We wants the precious, and fat hobbit gets in our way." Spittle flew in Sam's eyes and he blinked furiously. The next instant his attacker grew still. Sam cracked open an eyelid and saw immediately why. Frodo had the creature by its sparse and scraggly hair, Sting at its throat.

"You forgot about one thing, Gollum," Frodo declared breathlessly. Sam gasped at the name and looked with revulsion. Why, he wasn't any bigger than a hobbit, just wiry—and mostly naked…and almost bald. Sam didn't think he'd ever met a bald hobbit. He shook himself. His mind needed to attend to the matter at hand. "I have Sting. I don't wish you dead, but I can't let you have the Ring."

Sam lay still under the sad creature, not a little unnerved by the sight of Frodo holding Sting at its throat. "What are we going to do with him-I _knew_ we'd need rope."

"Well, we can't let him go, either."

"Please, don't kill us." The creature was whining now.

Sam stared. The thought hadn't crossed his mind, not in cold blood, anyway. But the look on Frodo's face—he'd never seen it before, and in that moment he knew Frodo _could_ kill Gollum. Oh, he'd feel horrible afterward when his own thoughts returned, but the pitiful creature would still be dead. Blasted Ring.

"Don't, Mr. Frodo," he pleaded. "Not like this." As if a curtain had been parted in his mind, Frodo staggered backward in self-loathing.

Sam used the distraction and flipped Gollum off of him. For once being "fat hobbit" had its advantages, he thought ruefully as he sat on the squirming creature, the scratches on his neck and face smarting. He wasn't quite sure what else to do without some other way to restrain him.

" _Don't hurt us! Don't let them hurt us, precious!"_

"We're not going to hurt you—but we can't exactly have you attacking us when we turn our backs either, can we?"

Sam looked over to Frodo, and it seemed his gaze had softened.

" _Daro_ *!" A voice interrupted suddenly, causing Sam to jolt with surprise. As he looked around to find the owner of the voice, a horrible pain lanced through his hand, and he let go with a yelp as Gollum scrambled out from underneath him.

"That nasty little bugger bit me! He actually bit me!" Frodo leapt to grab its ankle, but it easily wrenched away. Arrows began flying at Gollum as he fled—at least, Sam hoped that was where they were aimed-but somehow the wiry creature avoided them all and faded into the shadows. Sam didn't dare rise, and instead knelt panting next to Frodo, hands raised. Somehow, Sam was certain they'd not seen the last of Gollum, and his throbbing hand and scratched neck did not leave him with charitable thoughts. If they met again, he was going to be much more cautious—and he was determined to make sure he had some rope.

Out of the darkness, a patrol of five elves emerged across the river. A sixth dropped out of the treetops directly over them and studied them carefully, his head tilted. He was tall, with golden hair, and he held an ornate bow in his left hand. Sam's mouth dropped open. Unless he was very much mistaken, the elf had just crossed the river from the treetops. He sighed wearily—it felt like he'd seen a lifetime of things in this one night.

" _Nathlo*_ ," the elf said finally with a little bow. He turned and rattled off something to the others still across river—Sam thought he caught the word Legolas had used for hobbits, though it didn't sound exactly the same.

"I think they are speaking another dialect amongst themselves," Frodo whispered in frustration before trying again. "He greeted us in Sindarin, and whatever they are saying sounds like it should be familiar, but I can't understand a word."

"Frodo Baggins, at your service—and this is Samwise Gamgee. Uh… _I eneth nîn Frodo Baggins*."_ He gestured to Sam. " _I eneth dîn Samwise Gamgee. Telim o Shire*."_ Apparently even Frodo was having trouble recalling what he'd learned. His words were childlike and halting. "It keeps getting mixed up in my head," he lamented softly.

" _Mae govannen, Frodo—Samwise. Im Orophin_.* Marchwarden," the tall elf returned at last. The final word was said like he was forcing his mouth to make sounds they'd never made before.

So _these_ were the marchwardens Strider had spoken about.

Frodo brightened, and he asked hopefully, " _Carfol…carfol I lam nîn_?"*

Orophin the Marchwarden shook his head with regret. " _Ú-garfon Annúnaid_."*

Frodo wilted again. "He doesn't speak Westron," he explained.

Sam had to concentrate to wipe a scowl from his face. Some of Gimli's words about elven conceit came to mind. Gildor, Legolas, and even those in Elrond's house had learned. How could one live a millennia and not study another's language?

Frodo began again haltingly, " _Tiron an canad mellyn_."* He fell silent for several moments, thinking hard before he continued, " _Mathasser yrch."_ *

Sam wisely did not say that he felt Gildor had been a bit premature in praising Frodo's language abilities, but relief flooded him when he saw a glimmer of understanding—and recognition—in the tall elf's face.

" _Iston*_ …" the elf rattled off a long sentence of unfamiliar words, though Sam thought he heard something about a brother.

"Mr. Frodo," he whispered, "They are _alive_. They've made it!"

" _Aphado ven,_ "* the elf interrupted, before abruptly turning and walking away. Sam looked at him in surprise, then across the river. The other elves had already vanished into the treetops.

"I guess that means follow me," he muttered. The elf—Orophin—didn't try to interact with them any further. It seemed he recognized the futility, which irritated Sam, because Mr. Frodo did know enough to at least be polite, if they'd only be patient. What kind of elves were not patient? And shouldn't a border guard be a tad more like a welcoming committee? Sam suspected his thoughts, if shared, would offend the marchwardens, but that Legolas would have found something merry and humorous in all of this.

The elf barely slowed to accommodate the hobbits' shorter legs, and they had to sprint to keep up. He'd made no mention of Legolas, or Gimli—at least Sam thought he hadn't. He wondered why Strider had said nothing, but then revised his thoughts. These elves probably hadn't stuck around long enough for the information to be relayed. He hoped it wasn't because the man had been too injured to relay the information.

It soon became obvious to Sam that these elves were tracking the orcs that had chased them earlier. Guilt churned in his stomach. They must have fled back this way while they'd been sleeping. They retraced their steps for some time, the Silverlode at their left, before emerging once more onto the grassy plain.

Orophin stopped, "Cross here."

Sam was a bit indignant when he found himself being carried across with no warning, but in truth, he was relieved to avoid another cold dunking, and for a few moments to stop and catch his breath. He took back every uncharitable thought he'd ever had about Gandalf or Strider giving no thought to hobbit legs in their pace. They'd been much more accommodating than he'd realized.

The grasses were less shadowed now in the early hours before sunrise. Sam took in the sight with wide eyes. The grasses were blackened and trampled. Great hulking shadows lay scattered like boulders on the ground. The packs were piled and waiting where they'd left them next to Boromir's shield. After a moment, Frodo joined him quietly.

The elves were consumed with their tracking, calling their findings back and forth to each other. Frodo could not get their attention, growling in frustration, "If they would at least _speak_ amongst themselves in Sindarin, then I wouldn't be completely lost. And if they haven't been told about Legolas, then we need to do it, but I can't get a word in edgewise."

Finally, Sam decided it was high time he took matters into his own hands and stepped in front of the leader. Orophin stumbled a bit as he was forced to stop abruptly. Sam glared at him, and the elf raised his eyebrows in curiosity and surprise.

" _Lasto!*_ My master has something to say to you." He didn't care if the elf understood him or not.

Frodo was beside him now, and, after giving him a glance of thanks, stammered, " _Geheno nîn. Penin andreth a brestannen. Penin ist… Mellon nîn te harn. I eneth dîn Legolas, o Eryn Galen_."

Frodo's halting, but clear words drew the eye of all six elves, who looked at him with some alarm. Sam was a bit taken aback when Orophin placed a gentle hand on Frodo's shoulder. He was crouching now, his eyes level with Frodo's, a look of grave concern on his face.

" _Henion. Mas I Thranduillion?"*_ So these elves knew Legolas' name—Sam wasn't sure even the entire Fellowship knew that. That meant that somehow, they knew him. He nearly sat down in relief.

" _Forod. Nef hîr*,"_ Frodo stammered, confirming that they were indeed talking about the same Legolas.

Orophin shot to his feet then and began shouting orders in his strange dialect, dispatching a messenger Southward and propelling the two hobbits toward him. Sam could have cried in relief at having others share the burden. He was certain they would take care of their own kind.

* * *

* _Daro—_ Stop/Halt

* _Nathlo_ —Welcome.

* _I eneth nîn Frodo Baggins_ —My name is Frodo Baggins

* _I eneth dîn Samwise Gamgee. Telim o Shire_ —He is Samwise Gamgee. We are from the Shire.

* _Mae govannen, Frodo-Samwise. Im Orophin_. _—_ Well met…I am Orophin.

* _Carfol I lam nîn_? _—_ Do you speak my language?

* _Ú-garfon Annúnaid_ —I don't speak Westron.

* _Tiron an canad mellyn_ —I'm looking for four of my friends.

* _Mathasser yrch—_ They fought orcs.

* _Iston—_ I know.

* _Aphado ven—_ Follow me.

* _Lasto!_ —Listen

* _Geheno nîn. Penin andreth a brestannen. Penin ist… Mellon nîn te harn. I eneth dîn Legolas, o Eryn Galen—_ I'm sorry. I'm impatient and troubled. I don't know…my friend is wounded. His name is Legolas, of Eryn Galen (Mirkwood).

* _Henion. Mas I Thranduillion?_ —I understand. Where is the son of Thranduil?

* _Forod. Nef hîr—_ North. Beside the river.

* * *

End note: I've had a couple requests for more of Gimli's thoughts, and I apologize for making you wait so long. Don't worry, we're _finally_ back to him in the next chapter.


	9. Chapter Nine

A/N: Usual disclaimer applies.

Some words of caution for this chapter: because of Gimli's use of an axe, the battle scenes might be a smidge gorier than I'd usually write, though I don't go into great detail. Also, injury descriptions from here on out are not for the squeamish. I have always found reading about a fight and the injuries caused by it to be less problematic for me than watching the described actions happen on screen. That said, I've tried to be realistic and descriptive, but not excessive. While this chapter constitutes a strong T, I did not feel it warranted an M.

* * *

Chapter Nine

Legolas had drifted off again. One moment, Gimli had thought he was about to learn the mystery of Aragorn's connection with Lothlórien, and the next there had been no reply. It had already been rather disconcerting how one comment might be in Westron and the next Sindarin, not to mention a bit difficult for Gimli to keep up. What concerned Gimli even more was that, despite his previous fluency with Westron, the elf seemed to struggle to understand. In the darkness it was becoming harder for him to tell if the elf was trying to process his words, or if he had lost consciousness.

"How's that bandaging coming along," Gimli tried again, hoping the elf might rouse at the sound of his voice, now that it had become clear he wasn't going to answer.

He hadn't protested the Legolas' decision to change his own bandages because he didn't imagine the elf would trust him to do it, and he hadn't planned on forcing the issue, but now the elf had lapsed into another of his strange silences. Finally giving up on the elf answering him, he scooted nearer in the darkness until he could see the outline of the elf's form. Glassy eyes reflected in the starlight, startling him a bit, but in the silence, he could still hear the elf's breathing.

"Stupid elves and their sleeping habits," he grumbled, as his heart rate slowed. At least this time he hadn't thought the elf was dead—he'd about had a heart attack when he'd returned from finding this shelter and had found him staring sightlessly, slumped at the base of the tree.

Gimli was no healer like Aragorn, but neither was he unfamiliar with wounds. Feeling almost like he was abusing a trust, he stretched his hand up toward the elf's shoulder. His hand hovered an inch away, wavering. He'd never touched an elf before tonight—even fully armored with gloves, and here he was clad only in his spare cloak and his smalls, with his armor and clothes all drying on the floor. Shoving back the feeling of vulnerability, he tentatively placed a hand on the elf's shoulder. He expecting Legolas to flinch and jolt immediately back to alertness, but the skin underneath his hand was still.

"You're burning up," he murmured.

A breeze blew through the shelter then, and the elf shuddered in his damp leggings. "Best get on with it then," the dwarf told himself.

Legolas didn't move as Gimli ran his hand carefully along the elf's side until his fingertips met the sodden bandages. He shook his head-the elf hadn't even managed to get the soiled bandages all the way off. His fingers ghosted over the wound, and he frowned. His heart sped up, and he felt around more carefully for a second time. The shaft was missing. He had to swallow against the bile that suddenly rose in his throat at this discovery.

The elf didn't make a sound as Gimli unwound the last of the soiled bandages from around his waist and inspected the wound as best he could in the dark. The shaft was definitely missing. Feeling around for the roll of fresh bandages, he grabbed it and began wrapping it around the elf's torso, taking care that it wasn't too lose or too tight. Finished, he eased him to the dirt floor and straightened his legs. That Legolas didn't stir _worried_ him. In the darkness, he fumbled around until he found his pack, and he emptied it out until he found a blanket at the bottom. He returned and draped it over the elf, and then he sat for a long time next to him in the darkness, lost in thought.

Gimli could spare no fire, which was what Legolas really needed to drive away the chill of wearing still damp leggings, but orcs were notorious about doubling back, and they were not out of danger. He suspected they would eventually track them here.

A fingernail moon eventually rose overhead and cast a scant amount of light into the shelter, so that Gimli could see more than just shadows. His muscles protested as he rose, stiffened already in the short time he'd been sitting. Helping the elf to the shelter had been no easy feat, weighed down as he had been by wet armor and an insensate elf, not that he'd ever admit it to a soul. His soaked armor had been so heavy his legs had been about to buckle—and that was just with him keeping himself on his feet.

Locating their damp things, he was pleased to find his own clothes mostly dry, except for his boots. That was hardly surprising. They were good boots, but hadn't been built for standing under waterfalls. It was with relief that he donned his clothes again, and then fastened his armor over them—all but the boots and his leather pauldrons. Those had taken the brunt of the waterfall, and he'd been lucky if they were dry by spring. Leather took forever to dry out.

* * *

As the night wore on, he found himself pacing near the entrance. To keep warm, he told himself, and not because of anything else. Even in the complete darkness, he could see how pale the elf was, and how he trembled, even beneath the blanket. That he should feel this level of panic over an elf was dismaying, but he no longer fought it. When they'd met in Rivendell, he hadn't known what to expect and had made his own assumptions, but even in those early days when they hadn't gotten along at all, he'd been forced to admit to himself that Legolas was very different from his father.

A cry from inside the shelter drew his attention behind him. Legolas was thrashing around beneath his blanket, muttering unintelligibly in elvish. Gimli was at his side in two long strides and knelt down by his head, shaking his shoulders gently. Nothing would rouse the elf, though he did stop thrashing quite so wildly, instead turning his head back and forth as if he were trying to forcibly shake away whatever it was he saw. Gimli settled in next to him, keeping a hand on the elf's arm.

Eventually—to Gimli's alarm—the elf's eyes drifted closed, though the dreams continued on for hours. Occasionally there were names—sometimes whispered, sometimes shouted in bitter grief. Often he heard Mithrandir, and even occasionally Lord Elrond's sons, but eventually it all built into a crescendo of one word. Estel.

Like lightning a piece of memory slid into place and Gimli remembered all the many times the elf had conversed in Sindarin with Aragorn. He wasn't calling out about lost hope, he was dreaming about something that had happened to them—and there were tears and wails and whispers of regret that would no doubt mortify the elf if he were conscious enough to know he had an audience. Nothing Gimli said or did would wake or calm him. He could catch some of it now and then-"Sorry, Estel…sorry we failed."

It was the fourth watch of the night when, at last, Legolas slipped into a deep and peaceful sleep, leaving the dwarf quite shaken. He'd no idea that such raw grief lay beneath the elf's merry disposition. He saw it for what it was now—a mask.

The elf slept peacefully after that, his eyes closed in utter exhaustion while Gimli kept watch. He did not resume his pacing, choosing instead to remain near the elf. As dawn neared, Gimli's ear began to hear ominous sounds. First thuds-like distant footfalls, then the occasional tink of metal on stone. Quietly, Gimli retrieved his axes and strapped his pauldrons back over his shoulders. As sounds of scratching and boots on the ground quickly became unmistakable, he leaned over Legolas and clasped his shoulder urgently, not entirely certain he would even wake.

To his relief, elf's eyes flew open immediately. At first he seemed a bit dazed, but to Gimli's relief, he blinked to alertness and his eyes went wide with alarm. "I hear them. Help me up, they are very close."

"Laddie…are you sure you can?" Gimli asked the question gently, struggling to keep the doubt from his voice. Though he was more relieved than he could say to hear that some strength had returned to the elf's voice, after all he'd witnessed, he didn't see how the elf would be any help at all in the coming fight.

"I _must_ ," the elf bit out, trying and failing to rise on his own, "There is every reason to expect they'll find our trail. Now will you help me up, or must I do it myself?"

Gimli held his hands out, as if the placate him, "Aye, I'll help, but laddie, if they find us, you know you can't match them."

Refusing to look him in the eye, the elf actually growled in frustration and spat, "You are _not_ sacrificing yourself for me. I will do what I can and die with my knife in my hand, hopefully taking a few of them with me. You should go, Gimli—slip away while you still can." His last words were clipped and breathless, as if the impassioned words had sapped his energy.

Gimli reared back at the finality in his voice. Legolas was expecting to die anyway. He'd given up. Gimli doubted he would even fight it if he was alone.

"I'm not going to leave you here," he managed to choke out, "Legolas—" His throat was tight with emotion, and the elf interrupted him before he could finish.

"You _must_ Gimli. The galadhrim will never allow you entry when I am gone, but if you go now, you can get away and go back to the Lonely Mountain." There was a pleading and yet hopeful quality to his voice.

"We dwarves are not cowards," Gimli found himself growling in dismay. He'd already known that a dwarf being allowed to pass through a reclusive elven realm might never happen, especially with Gandalf gone.

"Gimli!" Legolas' voice was weakening, though he was still flat on his back, "I don't want your death to be the last thing on my conscience."

"Who said anything about dying," Gimli patted his arm soothingly, "I'll have you know we dwarves know how to fight between rock and stone." He didn't add that a fight alongside an unarmored and injured elf in a space both too wide and too narrow was a bit different.

A ghost of a grin flickered on the elf's face for just a moment before it slipped away, "Gimli—help me up. They are almost upon us."

Relieved Legolas was not going to argue further, Gimli quickly complied and stretched out his hand. The elf grasped it strongly as Gimli hauled him into a sitting position. He didn't quite succeed in biting back a cry of pain, but he ground out, "Keep pulling—I'll be no good to you on the floor." He didn't waste time wrestling with Legolas' jerkin, or even his shirt—it was a waste of the elf's energy, but he did stop to retrieve the elf's vambraces and help him get them fastened around his lower arms while the elf got used to being in a sitting position. The dwarf had no intention of letting the elf defend him, and for once, pride had nothing to do with it, the only problem was that it seemed they were both of the same, stubborn mindset.

The hairs on Gimli's neck prickled, and he tugged again, "Up you get." They didn't have much time now. Gimli gave a final tug, and this time the elf clenched his teeth and mercifully managed to get his feet under him. Bracing himself with a hand on the dwarf's shoulder, he hauled himself upright. Gimli grunted and locked his knees against the elf's weight as he leaned heavily against him, trembling—his breath coming in shallow pants.

"I wish I had my bow," Legolas wheezed out when he was finally able to stand under his own power.

Try as he might, Gimli couldn't remember what had happened to it, and realized suddenly that the elf's knife belt was missing as well…though he thought the elf had mentioned having his knife. "You do have a weapon, don't you?"

The fissure was just wide enough for the orcs to press through side by side and Gimli couldn't entirely keep them back. The elf would have to be able to defend himself. He fingered one of his hand axes, and was about to pass it to Legolas when the elf drew his white knife from his boot.

"Took the belt off earlier—kept the knife," Legolas shrugged, pain keeping his explanation brief. The elf had stopped trembling now, though he leaned heavily against the stone wall of the shelter. In the dim light of the approaching dawn, Gimli could see his face was chalk white.

"You know there'll be no winning," the elf broke the silence again. It rattled Gimli that he was so morbid when he had been so merry.

Gimli shrugged, "Too late to flee now," he returned wryly, "You never know—the others may have whittled them down quite a bit if they are returning so late."

"It will not be enough—not in here."

Gimli didn't ask again if he could fight. They both knew the honest answer was no, but if they wanted to survive, they both would have to find the strength.

The orcs approached slowly, scratching and sniffing along, clearly following the trail they'd left the night before, and Gimli wished now that he'd thought to go back out and cover their tracks. The anticipation of battle drove away the all traces of the weariness that had been threatening to creep. Quietly, he slipped his two throwing axes from their place on his belt, their firm handles reassuring in his hands. Any moment now, his senses screamed.

For a moment, everything became quiet. Complete silence held for several seconds, their only warning before an orc burst through the opening in the fissure, his dark form a black shadow against the lightening sky. Seeing its quarry, the orc gave a great cry and lunged straight at them with its crude blade. More poured in immediately behind him.

"Baruk khazâd!" Gimli roared, rushing forward to meet them, blocking Legolas somewhat from their view and giving him room to swing his axes freely without worrying about the injured elf being caught by a friendly blade. He was grateful when Legolas seemed to understand and did not attempt to follow. Digging in his feet and pushing back at them, he hacked viciously with the axes in each hand. At first, he fought with relative success, but sooner than he'd anticipated, the force of their onslaught propelled him backward several feet.

A sword came down toward his head, crashing off his helm with such force his ears rang. His armor would protect him, but if he went down now, he knew he wouldn't get getting back up. He felt himself being pushed even farther backward. They would trample him to get to Legolas. He was losing ground quickly now, though the elf was still behind him. Frantically, he struggled to swing his hatchet as the press of orcs threatened to trap his arms against him. It was all he could do to hold them back.

"Argh!" He grunted, digging his feet in and meeting force with force.

A glint of silver flashed to his left and there was a high pitched scrape of steel and a blade that had been swinging for his neck was parried and lost momentum, glanced harmlessly off of Gimli's armor. The press lightened briefly, but there was no time to thank the elf.

There was very little room to get a good swing of his hatchet, so he resorted to using its razor sharp edge like a knife, slashing instead of hacking. The orc pressing against him went down like a stone and Gimli regained his footing. The press resumed, the frenzied orcs more concerned with getting past Gimli to get to the elf than actually ending the dwarf. They were like wolves drawn to a wounded animal. Gimli heard a groan from Legolas every so often, or a sudden hiss of pain as the elf jabbed at an orc who'd gotten too close, but he couldn't spare too close a look. He didn't know how the elf was even upright, but thank Mahal he was. He hacked and pushed, shoved and kicked-the fight using his entire body until his limbs burned and trembled.

There was a sudden squeal of alarm and, to Gimli's surprise, it seemed as if the orcs in the rear were turning to defend themselves, halting their forward press, while the orcs nearest him had worked themselves into a panic in a way only doomed and dying creatures can. The others must have found them! Beside him, Legolas was slowing, his wounded side was guarded far from the blade and against the wall, but his movements were sluggish and jerky, and the orc he feebly fought was determined to take an elf prize with him before its last breath. Kicking the orcs in front of him away to buy himself some time, Gimli reached across and hurled the axe in his left hand at the orc's chest.

To his dismay, the orc barely slowed. Gimli nearly fell over with relief when the glint of Legolas' knife came again and sloppily parried the blade Gimli had been unable to block.

The orcs on his right pressed in again, though there seemed to be less of them now. If Aragorn had joined the fight, Gimli had yet to hear the singing of his sword. To his left, there was grunt of paint and the grinding of steel as Legolas was forced to block another blow. This time the force of the orc blade wrenched the knife from the elf's grip and it clattered uselessly to the ground. The orc Gimli had tried and failed to kill jeered in victory and raised his sword.

Pinned down as he was, Gimli wasn't going to be able to get there in time. Frantically, he slashed at the orcs on his right and desperately dove in front of Legolas, throwing his left hand out to slow the blade crashing toward the elf. He bit back a cry of pain as the sharp edge cut through the leather palm of his glove and into his skin before the sword finally lost momentum and grazed down in the armored inside of his arm. Reflexively his fingers closed, and he clutched his injured hand to his chest while he swung the axe in his other hand viciously at the orc's neck. He heaved a great sigh of relief as the orc, at last, fell headlong to the ground.

Not pausing to feel pain, he turned, ready to fend off a blade that would surely be coming from his right, but found himself swinging at empty air. Wheeling his right arm a bit to recover from the uncountered forward momentum, he found himself starting at the pile of orcs lying dead at his feet, arrows in their backs. Breathing heavily, he could only blink at them, his exhausted brain unable to process anything beyond the fact that the battle was over.

"Gimli!" Legolas gasped out, and Gimli whirled around and took a good look at the elf. Wide, glassy eyes locked onto his out of a pale and clammy face, "Why did you…" The elf's knees buckled then, and he sank toward the floor, his hand flailing unsuccessfully for a hold in Gimli's armor. Gimli rushed underneath his arm, bracing the elf just enough to slow his decent.

"You should have just let it happen," the elf murmured, dazed, as his knees collided with the ground.

Gimli ignored the biting throb of his hand, deciding it couldn't be too awful if he'd been able to close it. The elf leaned into him, breaths rapid and shallow, deep furrows of pain lining his face. Struggling to keep the note of panic from his voice, Gimli found himself pleading, "Stay awake just a little while longer, laddie. You can rest in just a bit."

The elf wasn't looking at him. Instead, he gazed toward the entrance uneasily. Gimli couldn't recall a time he'd ever seen quite this expression on the elf's face—a strange combination of relief and concern, perhaps even fear. He placed a shaky hand on Gimli's shoulder and struggled to rise, but Gimli pushed him back down, following his gaze and starting with surprise. It hadn't been Aragorn and their Company who had come to their rescue.

Five elves, clad in cloaks of gray, slowly approached him. Gimli's heart sped up as he thought of the picture he and Legolas made. He turned and raised his hands, willing Legolas not to face plant into the dirt without his support, and dropped the axe he still gripped in his right hand. The last thing he needed was for the situation to be misconstrued and to turnaround to an arrow through the forehead.

"Need to…" Legolas bit out, gritting his teeth and pulling on Gimli's shoulder for leverage as he struggled desperately to his feet.

The elf swayed, leaning against the shelter wall. When he'd regained his equilibrium, he began to tug the dwarf behind him, though too feebly to have any success. Ignoring the unfolding situation, Gimli wedged himself once more against the elf's right side and steadied him. Legolas kept opening his mouth in a frantic sort of frustration, but no words would come. Gimli could feel the tremors wracking the elf's form as he took more and more of the Legolas' weight.

Try as he might, the elf couldn't speak. From the sheen of sweat on his face, and the way his eyes kept unfocusing, Gimli suspected he was using every ounce of his considerable willpower not to succumb to the pain. Surely he wasn't _that_ worried about Gimli's safety?

"It will be fine," Gimli whispered, trying to sound optimistic, and might actually have succeeded, had Legolas' sheer panic at the situation not sent cold fear racing through his veins. Surely they wouldn't believe _he_ had done this—that a dwarf was in league with orcs? But this was not Mirkwood, and if he'd never heard of Lothlórien, chances are, they'd never heard of him.

In place of words, there was only the sound of Legolas' harsh breathing as fought to speak through the agony. Gimli tried and failed to read the intentions in the grim faces of the elves as they neared. They stopped in front of them and Gimli tensed, expecting to be thrown aside.

Legolas tried again to step in front of him. "No you don't," Gimli growled and held him back awkwardly with his mangled hand. He wasn't strong enough to do much else, but he wasn't letting the elf try to defend him in this state. It would kill him.

For a few moments, the two parties just stared at each other, and for a moment Gimli's own vision tilted. Blood loss, he supposed, absently observing the blood running steadily back down the hand he held at his chest and dripping off his elbow. Legolas was seconds away from collapse, and the eyes of these elves seemed to take it all in. The dwarf expected them at any moment to demand an explanation at the state Legolas was in, and perhaps to manhandle or restrain him. Instead, not taking his eyes from Legolas, the elf greeted him a bit uncertainly in Sindarin-as if he did not expect Gimli to understand. "Master dwarf, would you please allow my kin the honor of tending your hand while I see to Thranduillion? My brothers and I mean you no harm."

Gimli's eyes widened. _Honor?_ At almost the same moment his relieved mind comprehended his good fortune, Legolas wilted with relief. Another elf shouldered into his place, catching Legolas before he could pitch forward. He embraced the elf, speaking soothingly in a dialect Gimli had heard in Mirkwood, but did not understand. He was no longer needed.

The gray-clad elves surrounded him then, and Gimli allowed one of them to pull him away. He couldn't help but feel gratified that Legolas had not worried about keeping the strange elves safe from _him_. He might not have realized Gimli had understood the greeting, but the dwarf knew enough about Legolas to know that he would have never given in to the pain if he'd thought Gimli would harm his kinsmen. The ground lurched violently he moved, but he managed to keep his feet as he was gently ushered out into the open.

The sky was a pale pink and the muted pre-dawn colors silhouetted the trees. Gimli stopped for a moment and took it all in. When the orcs had found them, he hadn't been certain he'd ever see another sunrise. He followed the elf, who leapt lightly over the rocky terrain, slowing occasionally to wait for Gimli. After a night of darkness, the world was so _green_. Legolas would be comforted by it, he thought.

Feeling unsteady, he paused again, his vision threatening to go black and his ears buzzing strangely. When his hearing cleared, Gimli blinked and realized the elf had been speaking. He was looking at Gimli with no small amount of concern. Predictably, a tree had been selected and he was indicating that Gimli should sit at its base.

Once seated, he clamped his good hand around his palm, his thumb pressing hard against the gash, but the pain of his own injury was forgotten when they brought Legolas out. He was ashen and gray, draped limply upright between two of them. The fresh bandages Gimli had applied were saturated again, red and glistening in the morning sunlight, all the way down to the elf's knee. Two more elves trailed behind, and Gimli saw they'd retrieved most of his and Legolas' belongings.

They laid Legolas down carefully on the ground beside him. A great mossy boulder sheltered the elf from the wind, and Gimli felt a bit of relief when they dug out medicines of their own. It seemed they'd forgotten about their offer to tend his hand, but he didn't begrudge the elf the care. The galadhrim unwound the bandages and probed at the wound, frowning. As they washed away the old blood, Gimli could only look with dismay. It was puckered and quite swollen, sluggishly oozing blood and foul fluid.

He had to practice several times in his head before he managed the words, interrupting their whispers with his halting and childlike attempts at speaking elvish for the first time in his life, "Non pilin yrch.*" Their heads snapped up at his explanation, and he added, "Gîr.*"

Had it really only been a day? Less than, since Gandalf fell. The scene of the wizard and the Balrog flashed through his mind once more, and he scrubbed his good hand wearily over his face before he remembered he was supposed to be holding pressure on his other hand. It was the longest day he'd ever had the displeasure of living through, but he was grateful to have made it to the other side.

"Aragorn removed it?" The sharp elven voice cut through his thoughts, the words both surprising and intriguing him. He raised an eyebrow, wondering how they knew Aragorn traveled with them. Wearily, he shook his head, and then leaned back against the tree, too exhausted to come up with a better explanation.

For the most part, they ignored Gimli after that, hovering around Legolas, talking grimly in their dialect, applying poultices, and pouring strange draughts down the elf's throat. He never roused, and Gimli refused to think about what this might mean. He hoped the elf had merely been drugged into a pain free slumber. He didn't notice right away when their conversation died down and one peeled away from the close-knit group around Legolas to re-enter the shelter. He emerged and approached Gimli uncertainly, one of Gimli's throwing axes in each hand. His sure feet ambled over the rough terrain toward Gimli and, after a moment, he bowed slightly and extended them to him, handles first.

Gimli could only stare in openmouthed amazement. It took a moment to find his voice before he offered gruffly, "Hannon le.*" Another moment passed before he realized he still hadn't taken the elf's offering. He tentatively reached up and grasped the axes one at a time with his good hand and slid them carefully into place on his belt. He couldn't help but wrinkle his nose at the grime of two battles worth of orc scum caked on the blades.

Gimli expected the elf to turn and leave, but when, after a few moments, he made no move, Gimli looked up again and found himself being watched. The glittering humor in those eyes told him that the elf had all but read his mind, and the sight so strongly reminded him of Legolas that he had to swallow hard at the emotion welling up in his chest. The elf's merriment disappeared, and he glanced at Legolas for a moment before turning back to Gimli.

"I am Orophin," he said at last in the Grey Tongue, with a slight dip of his golden head. "I bring news of your companions—they are both safe and well." At this Gimli sagged with relief, and almost didn't notice that the elf was still speaking, "I am sorry we have left your injury for so long. I'm afraid my brothers were quite overwrought at the state of our kinsman, but if you would allow me, I will tend your hand now, elvellon."

Gimli blinked at the term. He knew he should respond appropriately at the bestowal, but it seemed words had left him. He looked over to where Legolas lay, then he looked back hesitantly at the elf in front of him, and then he looked down at the appendage he still had tightly fisted against his stomach. This was not at all how he was used to his interactions with elves going. Slowly, he relinquished his hand to the elf's care.

"Gimli, son of Glóin, at your service," he managed belatedly, not even bothering with Sindarin. Why did his head feel like it was stuffed full of cotton?

The elf gave a nod of acknowledgement, and then got down to business. "I've sent Foendil and Tûron back with a report. If Aragorn is not already on his way, they will make sure he is coming to intercept us." He paused, before acknowledging, "Thranduillion's injury is beyond our skill."

Orophin carefully worked off Gimli's glove, and as he did so, a burning pain lanced across his palm and blood flow that had been slowly ebbing began to pour more quickly. Forcing himself to look down, Gimli at last took in the damage. As the elf gently pried his fingers open, Gimli could see a deep cut that ran across his palm from his thumb where it was bleeding steadily, to his little finger, where it grew more shallow.

"I'm afraid this will be quite painful, but it's bleeding too heavily to leave it untended," the elf offered apologetically before pouring water over it to clean it. Gimli could briefly glimpse pale sinew before blood welled up again and wiggled his fingers experimentally, biting his lip at the cry of pain that threatened to escape. Orophin looked like he wanted to scold him, but held his peace. For his part, Gimli was pleased to find that everything still worked, and that would just have to be good enough-at least he'd still be able to hold his axe when it healed.

The elf bound the hand tightly with fresh bandages, wrapping them around and around until the hand was fairly engulfed in white linen. "When we are able to stop, I can stitch it for you," then he gave a little bow and returned to Legolas' side, giving orders and organizing their departure for Lórien.

* * *

*Non pilin yrch=It was an orc arrow.

*Gîr=yesterday

*Hannon le=thank you (Movie verse Sindarin for thank you.)

*Elvellon=elf friend

End notes—You can see here that this chapter introduces quite the deviation from canon. In the movie, Gimli's arrival in the Golden Wood is met with veiled death threats ("the dwarf breathes so loud we could have shot him in the dark"). I always loved Legolas' movie response, but in the book, Legolas and Gimli were not yet close and Gimli was singled out with extreme prejudice, yet for reason we are never told, he and Legolas become close friends while in Lórien. My story explores all the ramifications of Legolas being injured. Some of the changes are minor, but for Gimli, his treatment by the galadhrim will be completely different—and perhaps he will still be distrustful because he feels they've only changed their minds because he's saved one of their own.

A few further notes: In the books, Gimli is only mentioned as having an axe, so this could be a bit of movie verse, but honestly one large axe isn't practical for close quarter battle. I think that Gimli probably _did_ have more than one axe on him. Also, if you're more of a movie verse fan, I should note that in the book, Legolas didn't have twin knives.


End file.
